The  Woman  Alone 


0f  CAUF.  UBHARY.  I.OS 


The 
Woman   Alone 


By 

Mabel  Herbert  Urner 

Author  of  "The  Journal  of  a  Neglected  Wife." 


Hearst's    International    Library    Co. 
New  York  1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
HEARST'S  INTERNATIONAL  LIBRARY  Co.,  INC. 

All  rights   reserved,    including   the    translation   into   foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian, 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Ax  IMPOSSIBLE  SITUATION 1 

II    THE  WIFE 13 

III  A  CHANCE  MEETING 27 

IV  TOGETHER  AGAIN 38 

V    WEAKENING 54 

VI    KATHEBINE 62 

VII    GBOWING  UNBEST 81 

VIII    A  FALSE  POSITION 90 

IX    COMPLICATIONS 99 

X    DESPONDENCY 115 

XI    THE  ANGUISH  OF  LOVING 127 

XII    THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL 144 

XIII  A  MAGAZINE  STOBY 151 

XIV  A  TBAGEDY 163 

XV    AN  UNEXPECTED  TEST 176 

XVI    THE  TBIP  TO  THE  COUNTBY 193 

XVII    THE  WOMAN'S  ULTIMATE  DEMAND 236 

XVIII    DESPEBATION 250 

XIX  THE  PRICE  INEVITABLE     ...                           .  279 


2133322 


The   Woman  Alone 


The   Woman   Alone 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  SITUATION 

THE  early  dusk  of  a  grey  day  was  gathering 
in  the  long  corridors  of  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  Margaret  hurried  by  the  statues  at 
the  entrance,  past  the  casts  of  early  Roman  glad- 
iators, up  the  wide  marble  steps  to  the  art  gal- 
leries. 

The  place  was  not  crowded ;  it  was  the  smaller 
and  more  leisurely  throng  of  a  "  pay  day  "  that 
strolled  through  the  rooms.  In  the  Flemish  Gal- 
lery an  art  student  was  copying  Van  Dyck's  Duke 
of  Lenox.  Further  on,  another  easel  with  a  half- 
finished  sketch  stood  before  a  Rembrandt  head. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  Catherine  Wolfe  Col- 
lection, Margaret  paused  and  swept  the  room 
with  a  tremulous  glance.  He  was  standing  be- 
fore a  picture  at  the  far  end.  Instantly  he 


THE   WOMAN    ALONE 


glanced  up,  as  though  conscious  of  her  presence. 
Now  he  was  hurrying  towards  her. 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  an  uncertain  smile. 
A  strained  silence  followed  the  murmured  words 
of  greeting.  They  turned  into  the  next  gallery. 
She  was  intensely  conscious  that  he  was  gazing 
down  at  her  as  she  walked  beside  him.  She  put 
out  her  hand  with  a  murmured, 

"  Oh,  don't  —  please  don't !  " 

"  Forgive  me.     It's  been  so  long." 

"Three  days?" 

"  Yes,"  bitterly,  "  three  days." 

A  group  of  sightseers  came  by,  intent  on  their 
catalogues.  Just  his  touch  on  her  arm,  as  he 
drew  her  a  little  aside  that  they  might  pass, 
made  her  pulses  throb.  Even  after  they  had 
gone  by,  she  still  leaned  slightly  against  him, 
and  when  she  drew  away  they  were  both  con- 
scious of  the  movement. 

It  seemed  to  Margaret  that  every  moment  she 
was  with  him  was  weighted  with  an  intense, 
thrilled  consciousness  of  his  slightest  act. 

As  they  passed  into  the  next  gallery,  he 
stopped  abruptly. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Margaret.  We  can't 
talk  here.  Let  me  take  you  to  dinner  to-night." 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    SITUATION     3 

"  But  I  thought  — "  in  a  low  voice. 

"That  there  was  to  be  only  an  occasional 
meeting  in  the  Park  or  gallery?  I'm  going  to 
Denver  to-morrow." 

"  To  Denver?  "  The  words  were  hardly  more 
than  a  whisper. 

"That's  why  I'm  asking  this." 

"  For —  long?  "  A  sick  tremor  was  creeping 
over  her. 

"  For  several  weeks  —  perhaps  longer.  The 
Edgerton  case  opens  there  Monday.7' 

"  And  it's  necessary  for  you  to  go?  " 

"I've  decided  to  go." 

"  It  is  necessary1! " 

"  I  think  it  is." 

"  On  account  of  the  Edgerton  case?  " 

"  No." 

"Oh,"  with  a  hysterical  little  laugh.  "Do 
you  think  that  will  help?" 

"  It  may." 

"  Then  wouldn't  it  have  been  better  to  go  with- 
out—  without  even  seeing  me  this  afternoon?" 

«  Yes." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  a  throbbing  silence. 
Presently  he  stopped  her  before  a  small  Inness 
landscape. 


THE   WOMAN    ALONE 


"  The  colouring  in  that  is  good." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"And  that  figure  through  the  distance  —  the 
shadows  against  the  tree  trunk — " 

She  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"And  that  damp,  marsh-like  effect  of  the 
ground  is  well  expressed." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "     It  was  almost  a  sob. 

"  Then  will  you  go  with  me  to  dinner?  I  told 
you  we  couldn't  talk  here." 

"  Oh,  yes  —  yes,  anything  would  be  better  than 
this  —  now." 

"Then  come." 

Though  her  heart  seemed  weighted,  she 
thrilled  at  his  tone  of  command,  at  his  impera- 
tive touch  on  her  arm  as  he  guided  her  towards 
the  entrance. 

Outside  it  was  almost  dark.  The  damp  air 
blew  coldly  into  their  faces  as  they  came  from 
the  heated  building.  Through  the  now  heavy 
mist  the  street  lamps  shone  in  yellow  blurs. 

He  motioned  to  a  cab. 

"No,  I  would  rather  walk  —  at  least  for  a 
while." 

"You're  not  tired?" 

She  shook  her  head. 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    SITUATION     6 

"Then  we'll  walk  down  through  the  Park." 

They  turned  back  into  the  Park,  which  was 
now  almost  deserted.  The  benches  along  the 
pathways  were  empty ;  the  air  was  too  chill  and 
raw  for  loitering.  Lamps  gleamed  palely  here 
and  there  among  the  trees,  lighting  up  a  few 
skeleton  branches  and  leaving  the  rest  massed  in 
obscurity. 

A  rustic  bridge  led  over  a  small  lake.  Silently 
they  looked  down  at  the  dark  water,  across  which 
lay  a  golden  bar  from  a  solitary  light  on  the 
bank.  Something  white  shone  from  beside  a 
projecting  rock — two  white  ducks  huddling 
close  together,  their  heads  under  their  wings. 

The  quiet  and  peace  of  it  all  seemed  in  strange 
contrast  to  the  roaring,  glaring  city  just  beyond. 
And  there  came  to  Margaret  the  longing  to  hold 
that  moment  —  the  rest  and  security  of  it  —  as 
she  leaned  beside  him  against  the  rail. 

Reluctantly  she  let  him  lead  her  on.  As  they 
neared  the  exit,  the  towering  buildings  with  their 
myriad  lights  seemed  like  menacing  sentinels  — 
lest  she  try  to  put  aside  for  more  than  a  moment 
the  problems  and  difficulties  that  lay  before  her. 

The  walk  through  the  Park  had  been  almost  in 
silence,  and  now,  as  they  entered  the  hotel  res- 


6  THE    WOMAN    ALONE 

taurant,  ablaze  with  lights,  Margaret  felt  her- 
self shuddering  away  from  the  thought  of  words. 
There  was  still  a  sense  of  nearness  and  under- 
standing in  their  silence  that  she  felt  words 
would  dispel. 

She  was  glad  of  the  hovering  presence  of  the 
waiter,  of  the  need  to  order  that  kept  his  atten- 
tion from  her  for  a  little  while.  He  had  secured 
a  table  in  a  secluded  corner  of  the  room,  and 
when  at  length  the  waiter  hurried  off  they  were 
practically  alcne. 

Their  eyas  met.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at 
him  unwaveringly,  then  faltered  before  the  un- 
veiled tenderness  in  his  glance.  A  faint  colour 
crept  into  her  cheeks. 

"  Are  you  tired?  "  gently. 

"A  little.  And  let's  not  talk  about  to-mor- 
row —  not  just  yet." 

"  No,  dear,  not  yet." 

He  understood  her  mood.  She  wanted  to  put 
it  off  —  to  have  at  least  part  of  their  evening 
as  though  to-morrow  were  not  to  be. 

The  orchestra  in  the  next  room  was  playing 
a  haunting  Hungarian  melody,  and  to  Margaret 
the  minor  strains  seemed  like  the  cry  of  her  own 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    SITUATION     7 

heart  in  an  impassioned  protest  against  an  im- 
placable fate. 

She  sipped  her  wine  with  the  hope  that  it 
would  give  her  courage,  that  it  would  take  away 
some  of  the  chill  weight  that  lay  upon  her. 

"  You'll  try  to  eat  something?  "  he  glanced  at 
her  untouched  oysters. 

She  nodded. 

They  tried  to  talk,  tried  to  seem  natural,  to 
ignore  the  thing  that  filled  both  their  minds. 
But  it  was  forced  and  strained,  and  it  was  Mar- 
garet herself  who  gave  up  the  effort,  who  swept 
aside  her  own  request  by  an  abrupt, 

"  And  you  think  it  will  help?  " 

"  I  hope  it  will  help." 

"  And  when  you  come  back,  you  think  we  will 
have  ceased  to  care?  " 

"  Margaret,  you  know  I  don't  think  that.  But 
I  hope  in  the  long  absence  we  will  have  time  to 
think  more  clearly  —  to  realise  how  impossible 
it  is." 

"We  don't  realise  that  now?" 

"Not  quite — no.  I  find  myself  constantly 
hoping,  believing  almost,  that  something  will 
happen.  That  some  way  will  open  up,  that 


8  THE    WO  MAN    ALONE 

chance  or  fate  will  somehow  bring  things  around. 
And  yet,  I  know  it's  impossible.  There's  noth- 
ing that  could  happen  that  would  help  us  — 
nothing  that  would  not  bring  untold  suffering 
to  some  one  else.  And  we  can  never  take  our 
happiness  that  way." 

"  No  —  no,"  in  a  low  voice. 

"  There  are  some  things  to  which  there  are  no 
solutions,"  bitterly.  "  I  spend  hours  planning, 
scheming,  and  always  come  back  to  the  one  thing 
—  I  can  never  leave  her.  It  would  kill  her." 

A  long  silence.  He  was  gazing  across  the 
room,  his  face  tensely  set.  Margaret's  hand 
trembled  as  she  moved  her  wine  glass  back  and 
forth. 

"And  when  you  come  back — "  falteringly. 

"  When  I  come  back,  Margaret,  I  hope  to  have 
more  strength,  strength  enough  — "  he  hesitated. 

"  Not  to  see  me." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"And  I  —  I  — "  with  a  stifled  sob,  "  where  will 
7  get  strength?  Have  you  thought  of  that?  " 

"  More  than  of  anything  else.  But  you  have 
the  strength.  Slight  and  frail  as  you  are,  you 
have  the  strongest  will,  the  most  indomitable 
pride  of  any  woman  I've  ever  known." 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    SITUATION     9 

"And  you're  counting  on  that?  You're  de- 
pending on  my  pride  to  keep  me  up  —  to  lash  me 
on?  Could  anything  be  more  cruel?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  What?  " 

"  For  me  to  stay,  to  absorb  more  of  your  youth, 
your  future  —  when  I've  nothing  to  offer  you." 

A  sudden  reckless  motion  of  her  hand  swept 
over  the  wine  glass.  She  watched  the  small  red 
splash  slowly  spread  into  the  white  cloth.  What 
was  it  symbolic  of  —  that  slowly  spreading 
stain?  What  was  she  trying  to  think  of? 

The  waiter  came  up,  covered  the  cloth  with  a 
napkin  and  refilled  her  glass. 

"  But  if  I  should  cry  out  that  I  could  not  bear 
it?  If  my  pride  and  strength  should  fail?  If 
I  should  break  down  —  throw  everything  aside 
and  send  for  you?  " 

A  sudden  light  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  leaned 
toward  her. 

"Margaret!"    The  word  was  like  a  caress. 

Involuntarily  he  covered  the  hand  she 
stretched  across  the  table,  then  almost  at  once 
released  it.  Slowly  the  light  went  from  his 
eyes,  and  they  were  again  sombre. 

Margaret  felt  as  though  she  had  actually  seen 


10  THE    WOMAN    ALONE 

the  crushing  down  of  something  within  him  — 
as  though,  with  his  strong  veined  hands,  he  had 
subdued  and  broken  some  struggling  thing. 
When  at  length  he  answered  her,  his  voice  was  al- 
most cold. 

"  Should  you  ever  send  for  me  —  you  know  I 
will  come.  But  I  know,  Margaret,  that  you  will 
never  send." 

"Another  goad  to  my  pride,"  bitterly,  "an- 
other way  of  lashing  me  on!  You  are  doing  it 
thoroughly  —  making  quite  sure — " 

"Don't,  dear,"  gently.  "We've  only  a  few 
more  moments  and  bitterness  won't  help  us." 

Only  a  few  moments  more !  She  put  her  hand 
to  her  throat.  She  had  not  realised  that  it  was 
late,  that  many  diners  had  come  and  gone  since 
they  were  there.  Only  a  few  moments  more! 
Something  like  terror  —  a  panic-stricken  terror 
swept  through  her. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it !  Say  something  to  help 
me  —  to  make  it  easier !  " 

"What  must  I  say,  Margaret?  What  can  I 
say?"  Again  he  covered  her  hand  with  his. 
"There  is  nothing  I  can  say  or  do — except  to 
love  you  enough  to  leave  you.  If  I  loved  you 
less  —  if  I  respected  you  less  —  do  you  think  I 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    SITUATION    11 

would  go  away  now?  Oh,  Margaret,  Margaret, 
don't  you  know  it's  because  I  love  you  so 
much?" 

With  averted  face  she  struggled  with  the  chok- 
ing sobs. 

When  at  length  they  rose  from  the  table,  Mar- 
garet was  trembling  so  that  for  a  moment  she 
wondered  if  she  would  have  the  strength  to  cross 
the  room.  He  took  her  cloak  from  the  waiter 
and  put  it  around  her.  He  would  never  let  a 
waiter  help  her  with  her  wraps. 

Outside,  a  cab  was  waiting.  She  heard  him 
give  her  address  to  the  driver.  It  was  not  far  — 
in  a  few  moments  they  would  be  there.  And  he 
would  leave  her  at  the  door.  Only  a  few  mo- 
ments more  —  a  few  moments! 

She  was  leaning  back  in  the  shadow  of  the 
cab,  her  hands  clasped  tight  in  her  lap.  She 
must  not  cry  out  —  she  must  not  cling  to  him ! 
She  was  saying  that  over  and  over  to  herself. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  and  took  both  her 
hands  in  his. 

"  Margaret,  I  want  to  leave  you  before  we 
reach  your  hotel.  I  want  to  tell  you  good-bye 
here  —  not  in  a  glaring  hotel  lobby." 

She  made  a  faint  motion  of  assent.    And  then. 


12  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

very  gently,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  until  she 
lay  within  his  arms. 

"  I  love  you,  Margaret.  I  love  you ! "  For  a 
moment  longer  he  held  her  in  silence.  And  that 
was  all.  Abruptly  he  released  her. 

Then,  without  stopping  the  cab,  he  threw  open 
the  door  and  sprang  out. 


II 

THE  WIFE 

DEAR  GRAHAM  : 

Now  that  you  are  really  coming  home,  and  won't  think  I 
am  trying  to  hurry  you,  I  can  say  that  these  five  weeks 
have  seemed  like  years.  I  have  not  known  what  to  do  with 
myself  or  my  time.  The  few  days'  illness  I  wrote  you  of 
last  week,  was  brought  on  by  sheer  loneliness  and  longing 
for  you. 

You  persuaded  me  not  to  go  with  you  because  of  the 
hardships  of  the  trip.  As  though  anything  could  be  so  hard 
as  the  loneliness  of  these  weeks!  Oh,  dear,  I  have  missed 
you  so!  Promise  that  you  will  never  leave  me  so  long 
again.  I  can  stand  any  hardship  but  that  of  separation 
from  you. 

And  your  letters  —  they  have  been  so  short  and  unsatisfy- 
ing. Mere  notes  about  the  case  and  nothing  —  almost  noth- 
ing about  yourself.  But  then  I  know  you  have  been  very 
busy  and  I  ought  not  to  complain. 

I  have  had  your  room,  the  library,  hall  and  dining  room, 
thoroughly  gone  over,  the  ceilings  retouched  and  all  the 
wood  work  and  floors  re-oiled.  I  have  done  this  because  I 
know  you  hate  the  disturbance  of  house-cleaning  —  and  be- 
cause it  has  given  me  something  to  do. 

Max  misses  you  almost  as  much  as  I  do.  He  wanders 
restlessly  about  the  house,  sniffs  at  your  chair  in  the  dining 
room  and  seems  a  very  disconsolate  dog.  Yesterday,  when 
I  was  going  over  your  clothes  closet  and  straightening  out 
your  things,  Ellen  called  me  away  for  a  few  moments. 
13 


14.  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

When  I  came  back  Max  had  dragged  down  your  bath  robe 
and  was  lying  on  it.  I  tried  to  take  it  from  under  him,  but 
he  growled  most  fiercely.  And  Ellen  —  even  Ellen  asks 
anxiously  every  day  just  when  you  will  return.  So  you 
see  we  all  are  wanting  you  to  come  home,  dear  —  Max, 
Ellen,  and  your  wife. 

MABY. 

FOB  the  last  half  hour  he  had  held  the  letter. 
Now  he  slowly  folded  it,  returned  it  to  his 
pocket,  and  once  more  gazed  out  at  the  flying 
fields  and  telegraph  poles. 

As  another  train  whizzed  past,  his  face  was  re- 
flected in  the  momentarily  darkened  window. 
He  was  thinner  and  more  haggard ;  the  five  weeks 
had  left  their  mark. 

"And  do  you  think  that  will  help?"  How 
those  words  haunted  him.  No,  it  had  not  helped. 
He  was  coming  back  with  a  greater  longing,  a 
more  consuming  need  of  her  than  ever.  Work  — 
work  —  he  would  go  on  fighting  it  with  work  — 
ceaseless,  feverish  work !  He  chafed  against  the 
enforced  idleness  of  these  two  days'  travelling. 
To-morrow  he  would  be  in  his  office. 

But  before  the  solace  of  to-morrow's  work  — 
lay  his  home-going  this  evening.  He  must  meet 
Mary  kindly,  he  must  try  to  respond  to  her  ca- 
resses. The  letter  in  his  pocket,  all  the  letters 
he  had  received  in  these  five  weeks  were  only 


THEWIFE  15 

additional  proofs  of  her  love  and  trust,  her  piti- 
ful dependence  upon  him.  Whatever  the  cost  of 
dissembling  —  he  must  not  fail  her. 

It  was  growing  dusk.  The  porter  came 
through  and  turned  on  the  lights.  The  dreary 
stretch  of  darkening  fields  outside,  emphasised 
the  atmosphere  of  comfort,  of  seclusion,  of 
warmth  and  intimacy  of  the  gleaming  polished 
wood,  mirrors,  and  plush  fittings  of  the  speeding 
car. 

For  a  few  moments  he  leaned  back  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  thoughts  and  dream  pictures 
he  had  been  fighting  against  all  day.  She  was 
there  beside  him ;  now  and  then  her  hair  brushed 
his  shoulder  as  he  bent  toward  her,  and  some- 
times she  would  lay  her  small  ungloved  hand  on 
his,  as  she  drew  his  attention  to  something  out 
the  window.  She  was  a  little  tired  with  the  long 
trip.  Her  hair  was  slightly  loosened  and  fell 
carelessly  around  the  small  delicate  face,  which 
seemed  pale  against  the  background  of  the  dark 
velvet  seat. 

Abruptly  he  rose,  strode  back  to  the  observa- 
tion car,  where  he  walked  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  aisle.  How  could  he  hope  to  forget  if  he 
yielded  to  thoughts  like  these? 


16  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

It  was  almost  seven  when  at  length,  over  an 
hour  late,  they  drew  into  Jersey  City.  With 
the  aid  of  a  porter  he  shrugged  into  his  overcoat, 
gathered  up  his  bags,  and  hurried  out  through 
the  station  to  the  waiting  ferry  —  glad  of  the  in- 
clemency that  drove  the  other  passengers  inside 
and  left  him  alone. 

The  scattered  lights  in  the  towering  buildings 
seemed  like  the  still  glowing  frameworks  of  some 
great  pyrotechnic  display.  It  was  about  this 
same  hour,  one  evening,  that  she  had  crossed  the 
ferry  with  him  —  just  for  the  effect  of  lights. 
Desperately  he  threw  the  thought  from  him. 
Was  every  hour  to  be  stained  with  some  memory? 
Had  he  gained  so  little  control  of  his  thoughts? 

A  creaking  of  chains,  a  heavy  jarring  thud  — 
the  boat  had  landed.  He  threw  his  bags  into  the 
first  cab,  and  was  whirled  off  towards  his  home. 
In  a  few  moments  he  must  meet  his  wife.  He 
must  think  of  something  to  say  —  he  must  not 
seem  abstracted.  He  must  do  his  best  to  make 
her  happy. 

But  when  he  ran  up  the  wide  stone  steps,  it 
was  with  a  sense  of  entering  some  one  else's 
house  —  it  seemed  strangely  foreign  and  unfa- 
miliar. The  heavy  door  yielded  to  his  latch-key. 


THEWIFE  17 

He  had  hardly  put  down  the  bags  and  thrown  off 
his  coat,  when  Mary  came  running  down  the 
stairs. 

"  Oh,  Graham  —  Graham ! "  She  threw  her- 
self in  his  arms  —  kissing  him  again  and  again ; 
and  he  hated  himself  for  his  coldness  and  his  de- 
sire to  draw  away. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you'd  never  come !  I  was 
growing  frightened.  What  made  the  train  so 
late?  " 

"  I  wrote  you  it  might  be  late ;  that  through 
train  often  is." 

"  Oh,  I  know  —  but  not  so  late  as  this !  And 
I  wanted  to  come  to  meet  you  —  why  did  you 
write  me  not  to?  " 

"Just  because,  dear,  I  was  afraid  it  would 
be  late.  I  didn't  want  you  waiting  down  there 
so  long." 

"As  if  I  would  have  minded  that!  But  I 
mustn't  keep  you  standing  here  —  I  know  you're 
tired.  Won't  you  come  in  to  dinner,  just  as  you 
are?  Ellen  has  it  all  ready,  and  you're  too  tired 
to  dress." 

"  No,  I'll  not  dress,  but  I  must  freshen  up  some. 
It  won't  take  me  long." 

She  followed  him  up  to  his  room, 


18  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

about  Mm,  laid  out  his  things,  full  of  solicitude 
for  his  comfort. 

Bestive  under  her  anxious  attentions,  he  was 
glad  when  Max  came  bounding  into  the  room, 
barking  and  leaping  wildly  about  him  in  frenzied 
joy. 

"  Down,  Max !    Good  old  boy ! " 

"Oh,  Max  has  missed  you  so!"  And  then 
suddenly  she  turned  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him.  "  Oh,  Graham,  Graham,  you  won't  go 
away  again  without  taking  me?  Say  that  you 
won't!  I  couldn't  bear  another  five  weeks  like 
these  —  promise  me  that  you  never  will ! " 

"  Why,  no  —  of  course  not,  Mary.  Why,  dear 
—  what's  the  matter?"  She  was  sobbing 
brokenly,  her  face  hidden  against  his  arm. 
"Don't,  dear  —  don't  do  that.  I'm  not  going 
away  again !  "  He  stroked  her  hair  awkwardly. 
"  There  now  —  take  Max  down  with  you,  and 
I'll  freshen  up  and  come  down  in  a  moment." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  locked  his  door  and 
strode  back  and  forth  across  the  room  with  bent 
head.  It  was  going  to  be  harder  even  than  he 
had  thought. 

During  the  dinner  he  tried  to  tell  her  of  his 
trip,  and  to  seem  interested  in  her  account  of  the 


THEWIFE  19 

house  and  servants.  She  was  much  worried 
about  his  health.  He  assured  her  that  he  was 
merely  tired  and  would  be  all  right  in  a  few  days. 
"  Shall  we  have  the  coffee  in  the  library,  to- 
night? You'll  be  more  comfortable  and  can  rest 
better  there." 

"  Why  yes,  Mary,  if  you  wish.  But  I'm  afraid 
I'll  have  to  go  down  to  the  office  for  a  little  while 
this  evening,  there  are  some  letters  I  want  to 
get  off— " 

"To-night — when  you  are  so  tired!     Surely, 
Graham,  you're  not  going  to  the  office  to-night?  " 
"  I'm  afraid  I  must,  Mary,  for  a  little  while." 
"  But  can't  you  write  the  letters  here?  " 
"  There  are  some  files  I  must  go  over  —  some 
data  I  must  have  about  a  contract." 
"And  can't  you  do  that,  to-morrow?" 
"  If  I  get  it  off  to-night  it  will  reach  Harden 
Saturday.     If  I  wait  until  to-morrow  they  won't 
get  it  until  Monday,  and  that  will  be  too  late 
for  the  bids.     They  must  get  in  their  bids  on  that 
work  by  twelve  o'clock  Monday." 

Half  an  hour  later  he  left  the  house.  He 
walked  on,  with  bent  head,  unheeding  the  fine 
mist  that  was  falling.  Part  of  it  had  been  true. 
Some  points,  as  to  a  former  contract,  must  reach 


20  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

his  clients  Saturday.  But  a  telegram  or  even 
a  special  delivery  would  have  served  his  purpose. 

The  thought  of  going  to  the  office,  to-night, 
had  come  as  a  sudden  compelling  impulse  to 
avoid  the  long  evening  in  the  library.  Even  as 
he  spoke  he  had  hated  the  partial  untruth,  and 
now  he  was  filled  with  a  bitter  contempt  of  his 
weakness. 

What  would  be  the  future  if  the  mere  thought 
of  spending  an  evening  with  Mary  had  driven 
him  to  such  subterfuge?  Had  his  love  for  an- 
other woman  made  the  mere  companionship  of 
his  wife  unbearable?  No.  Fiercely  he  denied 
that.  He  had  a  great  respect,  a  great  tenderness 
for  Mary  —  which  nothing  could  ever  alter.  Her 
presence  could  never  be  distasteful.  He  found 
himself  repeating  this  over  and  over  again. 

He  walked  many  blocks  before,  at  length,  he 
took  a  car.  It  was  just  nine  when  he  reached 
his  offices.  The  great  building  loomed  up  dark 
and  deserted.  He  greeted  the  night  watchman 
who  sat  near  the  door,  half  dozing,  his  chair 
tilted  back.  The  elevators  were  not  running,  and 
his  every  step  echoed  through  the  silent,  dimly 
lit  corridors  as  he  hurried  up  the  stairs. 

At  the  seventh  floor  he  turned  to  the  right, 


THEWIFE  21 

down  a  long  passage,  unlocked  a  door,  passed 
through  the  outer  rooms  to  his  private  office. 
The  blinds  were  up  and  an  electric  sign  across 
the  street  shone  through  the  windows,  flooding 
the  place  with  a  pale  ghostly  light. 

A  strange  atmosphere  of  awaiting,  of  expect- 
ancy, seemed  over  everything.  All  the  instru- 
ments of  the  busy  activities  of  the  day  —  the 
typewriter,  the  mimeograph,  the  telephone  —  now 
seemed  tensely  waiting  for  the  onslaught  of  the 
morrow. 

Some  unanswered  letters  lay  in  a  wire  basket 
on  his  stenographer's  desk,  with  her  neatly  ar- 
ranged pencils  and  note  books.  The  small  nickle 
clock  she  always  kept  there  was  ticking  away, 
a  loud  insistent  sound  in  the  still  room. 

He  opened  his  desk,  turned  on  the  green 
shaded  light  that  hung  over  it;  took  down  some 
files,  found  the  contract  and  wrote  the  letter. 
He  sealed  and  stamped  it  with  a  sense  of  relief, 
not  on  account  of  the  letter,  but  because  he  had 
fulfilled  the  mission  on  which  he  had  said  he 
must  come. 

And  now  the  next  few  moments  he  claimed  for 
his  own.  He  crossed  over  to  a  large  safe  near 
the  window,  and  swiftly  worked  the  combination. 


22  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

The  heavy  door  swung  open.  He  unlocked  the 
inner  compartment,  and  then  took  from  his 
pocket  a  key  to  a  small  secret  drawer.  A  bundle 
of  letters,  a  long  white  glove,  a  lace  handkerchief, 
some  faded  flowers  and  a  picture  in  its  tissue 
paper  sheath  lay  before  him. 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  drew  out  the  picture. 
The  delicate  profile,  the  slight  droop  of  the  head, 
the  sensitive  mouth,  the  inexpressible  sadness 
and  sweetness  of  the  face.  "  Oh,  Margaret ! 
Margaret ! "  The  whispered  word  sounded 
strangely  in  that  still  place. 

How  often  in  these  weeks  of  absence  he  had 
tried  to  fix  each  delicate  feature  in  his  memory  — 
but  something  always  eluded  him.  He  took  the 
picture  over  and  held  it  under  the  green  shaded 
desk  light.  Never  had  he  felt  so  strongly  the 
hauntmg  sadness  of  the  face.  The  lips  seemed 
almost  quivering  into  a  cry  of  her  loneliness  — 
her  need  of  him. 

Her  need  of  him  —  nothing  made  it  harder 
than  his  realisation  of  that.  All  her  life  she 
had  been  alone,  a  frail,  shrinking,  super-sensi- 
tive woman  forced  to  meet  life  alone  —  to  fight 
her  own  way  from  early  girlhood.  She  had  done 
it  bravely,  courageously,  but  with  a  silent  suffer- 


THE     WIFE 


ing,  a  constant  flinching  and  recoiling  that  had 
made  her  withdraw  more  and  more  within  her- 
self. 

He  had  first  met  her  through  the  settling  of  an 
estate  of  her  uncle's,  her  only  near  relative,  who 
had  left  her  a  small  interest  in  some  mining 
property.  The  family  had  tried  to  protest  the 
legacy,  small  as  it  was.  And  Margaret's  pride, 
and  her  willingness  to  relinquish  her  interest 
rather  than  have  the  publicity  of  a  suit,  had 
aroused  his  keenest  sympathy.  That  had  been 
over  three  years  ago,  and  he  knew  now  that  he 
had  loved  her  from  the  very  beginning. 

And  her  work  —  the  drudgery  of  a  free  lance 
writer  —  special  articles,  book  reviews  and  short 
stories.  She  had  never  complained,  but  he  knew 
how  hard  it  was  for  her,  how  she  shuddered  away 
not  so  much  from  the  work  itself  as  from  the 
need  to  "  market "  it. 

And  yet  he  was  powerless  to  help  her ;  he  could 
not  shield  or  protect  or  provide  for  her  in  any 
way.  Her  fierce  pride  rose  before  him  always 
—  an  insurmountable  thing.  Why  should  he  go 
on,  he  thought  bitterly,  striving  to  increase  his 
wealth,  when  he  could  use  none  of  it  to  help  the 
woman  he  loved? 


24  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

As  he  stood  there,  still  looking  down  at  the 
picture,  his  arm  touched  the  telephone  by  his 
desk,  the  slight  jar  causing  the  faintest  whisper 
of  the  bell.  The  telephone!  All  through  the 
last  year  it  had  had  for  him  a  new  and  wonderful 
meaning  —  2589  Gramercy  —  her  number !  Her 
voice!  Every  blue  telephone  sign  in  the  city 
had  come  to  mean  that  to  him. 

And  now  —  even  now  —  he  had  only  to  take 
down  that  receiver  and  give  that  number.  .  .  . 
The  thought  thrilled  through  him.  How  near  it 
brought  her  —  how  it  seemed  to  break  down  the 
barriers  of  all  these  weeks.  And  yet  —  the  lines 
around  his  mouth  grew  tense  —  he  could  never 
call  that  number  again.  He  must  face  the  fu- 
ture, knowing  that  always  by  his  desk  was  an 
instant  means  of  reaching  her  —  that  he  could 
never  use.  And  when  he  walked  home,  wherever 
he  went  —  every  shop  and  drug  store  would  hold 
the  same  possibility. 

And  the  same  condition,  he  knew,  confronted 
Margaret,  She  must  make  the  same  struggle  — 
with  the  same  temptation  always  near.  She  had 
told  him  once,  after  a  slight  misunderstanding 
which  had  estranged  them  for  a  week,  of  the 
many  times  during  that  week  she  had  gone  to 


THEWIFE  25 

the  telephone,  had  sometimes  even  taken  down 
the  receiver  —  only  to  hang  it  back  without  giv- 
ing the  number.  At  the  last  moment  her  pride 
would  keep  her  from  it. 

Unheeding  the  time,  he  sat  brooding  there  by 
his  desk,  her  picture  still  before  him,  living  over 
the  hours  they  had  spent  together.  It  was  al- 
most midnight  when  at  length  he  rose  and  re- 
placed the  picture  in  the  safe. 

Before  he  locked  the  compartment,  he  took  out 
for  a  moment  the  long  white  glove.  Her  own 
faint  fragrance  hung  about  it  yet,  and  the  soft 
kid  seemed  still  to  hold  the  delicate  lines  of  her 
hand.  He  could  almost  feel  her  small  fingers 
within  his  clasp.  "  Margaret  —  Margaret  L " 
For  a  second  time  that  night  he  spoke  aloud  her 
name.  While  the  word  still  hung  on  the  air, 
a  shrill  startling  ring  came  from  the  telephone. 

A  telephone  call  at  midnight  —  in  his  office? 
Mental  telepathy  —  the  power  of  suggestion  — 
all  that  he  had  ever  heard  of  it  seemed  flashing 
through  his  mind.  Had  his  very  longing  forced 
her  to  him  at  this  time? 

"  Hello !  "  His  voice  rang  tense  with  the  hope 
that  was  in  him. 

"  Oh,  Graham  —  I  was  afraid  something  had 


£6  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

happened !  You  said  you'd  be  gone  only  a  short 
time  —  and  it's  after  twelve.  Aren't  you 
through?  Can't  you  come  home  now?" 

It  was  several  seconds  before  he  answered. 
His  silence  was  so  long  that  she  repeated  her 
questions  in  alarm. 

Then  he  said  quietly :  "  I'm  sorry  you  were 
worried,  Mary.  I'm  through  and  I'm  leaving 
now." 


Ill 

A  CHANCE  MEETING 

"TP  this  had  not  happened,  if  chance  had  not 

X  brought  this  about,  would  you  have  gone 
on  —  as  you  were?  " 

"  Margaret,  I  don't  know.  I  fought  it  out  for 
six  months,  and  there  was  not  a  day  in  that  time 
that  I  did  not  turn  to  the  telephone  with  an  ir- 
resistible longing  to  call  you!  The  letters  I've 
written  you  —  and  torn  up!  The  times  I've 
walked  by  this  hotel  at  night  —  just  to  be  near 
you." 

"And  you  would  have  gone  on?  Had  it  not 
been  for  this  accident  —  we'd  never  have  been  to- 
gether again?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  tell  you,  I  don't  know! 
But  surely  you  know  it  was  for  your  sake  I  was 
making  that  fight  —  that  I  felt  it  was  for  your 
best  good." 

"And  Tiers/" 

"  Don't,  Margaret,  don't  be  bitter  now." 

27 


28  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  No  —  no  —  I  shouldn't  have  said  that.  But 
oh,  I  can't  help  shrinking  from  the  thought  that 
we  are  together  again  merely  because  of  an  ac- 
cident !  I  can't  help  wishing  that  it  was  because 
your  love  was  stronger  than  your  will  —  than 
everything  else ! " 

"  And  yet,  if  my  love  had  been  less  I  wouldn't 
have  left  you  when  I  did.  Can't  you  understand 
that,  Margaret?  " 

"  Yes  —  in  a  way.     But  oh,  I  have  suffered  so 

—  the  sleepless  nights  —  the  days  of  loneliness 

—  all  the  time  hoping,  waiting,  sometimes  even 
believing  that  you  would  come !  " 

"A  word  from  you  would  have  brought  me. 
You  know  that." 

"  That  was  the  hardest  part  of  all  —  to  keep 
from  saying  the  word.  But  I  could  not!  If  I 
had  any  vestige  of  pride  I  couldn't  do  that !  It 
wasn't  as  if  I  had  sent  you  away  from  me  — 
I  hadn't.  You  had  gone  because  you  felt  it 
was  the  only  way.  How,  then,  could  I  send  for 
you?" 

"  Yes,  I  realised  that.  I  knew  the  strength 
of  your  pride.  And  yet  —  I  never  took  up  my 
mail  without  the  hope  that  there  might  be  some 
word.  The  'phone  never  rang  around  eleven  in 


A     CHANCE     MEETING  29 

the  morning  that  my  heart  did  not  leap  with  the 
thought  that  it  might  be  you." 

"  And  one  morning  it  was !  " 

"  One  morning  it  was  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  What 
do  you  mean?" 

The  colour  rushed  to  her  face.  "  I  did  call 
you  one  morning." 

"  Darling  —  you  did?    And  I  wasn't  there?  " 

"  Yes,  you  were  there  —  you  spoke  to  me." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  tell  you  —  it  seems  so 
weak.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  longed  just 
to  hear  your  voice!  Don't  you  remember  one 
morning  your  telephone  rang  —  and  when  you 
answered  there  was  no  one  there?  You  called 
'  Hello ! '  several  times  —  and  finally  hung  up  the 
receiver.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"  And  that  was  you?  " 

"  It  was  the  hardest  thing  I  ever  did  —  not  to 

speak,  to  hear  your  voice  and  not  answer  you ! " 

"  Margaret,  you  did  that  —  and  I  never  knew !  " 

"  And  oh,  I  felt  that  you  should  have  known ! 
If  there  is  anything  in  telepathy  or  suggestion  — 
it  seemed  that  you  would  feel  I  was  there !  And 
you  didn't?  The  thought  never  came  to  you?" 

"  No,  dear,  not  then.     I  think  there  was  a 


30  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

stockholders'  meeting  in  my  office  that  morning, 
and  I  was  very  busy — perhaps  that  was  the 
reason." 

"  So  it  was  a  stockholders'  meeting  that  ex- 
cluded any  thought  of  me !  " 

"You  know  how  quickly  I  would  have  ad- 
journed that  meeting,  had  I  dreamed  it  was  you." 

He  drew  her  toward  him  and  kissed  very  gently 
her  forehead  and  hair. 

"Oh,  Margaret  —  Margaret,  these  months 
have  been  so  hard.  There  were  times  when  I  felt 
I  couldn't  go  on.  Often  I've  gotten  up  from  my 
desk  and  walked  around  my  office,  feeling  how 
useless  it  was  to  work.  What  had  I  to  work  for? 
It  all  seemed  so  purposeless  and  empty  without 
you ! " 

"Oh  I  know  — I  know.  I  felt  all  that  and 
more.  Graham,  I  suffered  so  —  it  was  so  cruel !  " 
With  a  sob  she  hid  her  face  against  his  shoulder. 
"  It  was  so  pitifully  cruel !  But  now  —  we  are 
together  again!  We  are  together  again!  It 
seems  as  if  nothing  else  in  the  world  matters  — 
except  just  that." 

"Yes,  dear,  we  are  together  again.  And  yet 
things  are  just  as  they  were  before.  Nothing 
has  been  solved  —  no  condition  has  been  altered, 


A     CHANCE     MEETING  31 

And  for  your  sake  —  I  am  afraid  of  the  future." 

For  a  moment  he  paused.  She  did  not  speak ; 
her  face  was  still  hid  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Margaret,  in  the  past  I  have  been  strong 
enough  to  shield  you  from  myself.  But  I  feel  I 
cannot  answer  for  the  future.  You  must  know 
that  was  why  I  left  you,  why  I  fought  so  hard  to 
stay  away." 

He  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  stood  there 
for  several  moments,  and  then  turned  and  took 
his  seat  beside  her  again. 

"There  is  something  else  I  want  to  say  now, 
something  I  feel  I  must  say.  The  thought  may 
have  come  to  you,  as  it  has  many  times  to  me, 
that  should  our  love  ever  be  complete  —  it  might 
weaken  my  resolutions  about  her,  make  my  sense 
of  duty  to  her  less.  Margaret,  it  might  do  all 
that  —  but  it  could  not  make  me  leave  her! 
The  very  fact  that  I  felt  myself  weakening  would 
make  me  more  grimly  determined  not  to  leave 
her.  It  would  in  no  way  be  her  fault.  Should 
we  be  swept  away  by  our  love,  we  must  be  the 
ones  to  suffer  —  not  she !  " 

He  was  looking  down  at  her  hand  that  he  had 
taken  in  his  own,  musingly  tracing  the  veins. 

"  I  am  telling  you  this  now,  that  you  may  nev«r 


32  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

build  false  hopes  on  something  that  can  never  be. 
Margaret,  if  I  had  the  strength  to  do  what  I 
know  is  right  and  best  for  your  happiness  —  I 
would  leave  you  again  now.  Leave  you  in  some 
brutal  way  that  would  make  any  reconciliation 
impossible." 

"And  again  lash  me  on  by  my  pride  to 
silence?" 

"  It  would  be  best  for  you." 

"  And  you  can  do  that  now?  " 

"No!" 

Again  he  rose  abruptly  and  walked  over  to  the 
window.  She  remained  motionless,  her  hands 
lying  in  her  lap,  just  as  he  had  released  them. 

There  was  a  silent  whirring  sound  from  a  small 
clock  on  the  mantel,  then  with  irritating  slowness 
it  struck  five. 

"  That  simplifies  things  some,"  he  commented 
grimly,  without  turning. 

"  How?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"  In  the  need  to  meet  the  problem  of  the  mo- 
ment, we  can  shirk  those  of  the  future.  We 
might  pursue  that  plan  and  lessen  our  respon- 
sibility. No  doubt  each  day's  difficulties  will  be 
sufficient." 

She  went  over  to  the  window  beside  him. 


A     CHANCE     MEETING          33 

"  Only  a  few  moments  ago  you  asked  me  not  to 
be  bitter!" 

«  Yes,  I  know.    I'll  not  be." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  What  is  it  —  some  early  engagement  with  — 
Mrs.  Whitman?" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  you  must  go  now?  " 

"  I  should  go  now." 

"  Then  go,  dear.  We  don't  want  to  make  this 
day,  the  day  that  has  brought  us  together  again, 
the  cause  of  unhappiness  or  even  disappointment 
to  —  to  any  one." 

"  I  thought  of  that." 

"  Then  don't  be  late.  Don't  keep  her  waiting. 
Oh,  Graham,  I  feel  so  happy  —  so  filled  with  the 
joy  of  just  being  with  you  again  —  that  it  is 
easy  to  be  generous.  I  want  to  be !  No  —  no  — 
I  shouldn't  use  that  word  —  I  don't  mean  quite 
that.  I  am  in  no  position  to  be  generous  —  least 
of  all  to  her.  I  only  mean  —  oh,  I  don't  quite 
know  how  to  express  it ! " 

"  It  isn't  necessary,  dear.  I  know  what  you 
mean.  I  think  I  have  very  much  the  same  feel- 
ing about  it.  And  I  can  still  be  on  time,  if  I  go 
at  once." 


34  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  gently.  "  I 
suppose,"  with  a  smile  that  was  both  sad  and 
bitter,  "  we  might  express  it  something  like  this : 
Under  conditions  that  we  know  are  wrong  and 
that  we  haven't  the  strength  to  make  right  — 
we  are  going  to  do  the  best  we  can." 

It  was  almost  seven  before  Margaret  rose  from 
the  chair  by  the  window  where  she  had  been  since 
he  left.  The  room  had  grown  dark  —  and  still 
she  sat  there.  For  the  first  time  in  months  she 
rested.  Oh,  the  inexpressible  peace  and  quiet 
that  had  come  to  her  now.  The  few  moments 
he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  seemed  to  have  drawn 
from  her  the  anguished  ache  of  all  these  months. 

He  had  come  back  —  he  was  with  her  again! 
She  would  see  him  to-morrow  —  the  next  day! 
Whatever  the  future  held  —  they  would  not  be 
wholly  parted  again.  Nothing  mattered  but 
that.  And  as  she  sat  there  in  the  deepening  dusk 
—  there  stole  over  her  such  a  sense  of  peace, 
of  rest,  as  can  only  come  with  the  relaxation  of 
some  prolonged  strain. 

When  at  length  she  rose  and  flooded  the  room 
with  light,  the  first  thing  that  sprang  into  view 
was  the  telephone.  How  different  it  looked  to 
her  now !  For  months  it  had  seemed  to  dominate 


A     CHANCE     MEETING  35 

the  room  with  its  grim  silence;  it  had  been  a 
constant  torturing  reminder.  Now  the  whole  at- 
mosphere of  the  instrument  seemed  different. 
She  knew  now  that  over  and  over  again  it  would 
bring  to  her  his  voice  —  and  yet  only  a  few  hours 
ago  she  had  thought  it  never  would.  Only  a  few 
hours  —  but  they  had  changed  for  her  the  whole 
world. 

If  she  had  not  gone  out  to-day,  or  if  she  had 
gone  a  moment  earlier  or  a  moment  later!  If 
she  had  not  taken  the  subway,  or  even  if  she  had 
walked  to  the  right  instead  of  the  left  of  that 
crowded  platform!  Was  it  upon  such  trivial 
incidents  that  her  happiness  depended?  No. 
She  felt  that  it  was  infinitely  more  than  a  chance 
meeting. 

All  these  months  she  had  anticipated  and  pre- 
pared herself  for  some  unexpected  encounter. 
Sooner  or  later,  in  the  course  of  things,  it  would 
come.  She  had  pictured  meeting  him  on  the 
street,  in  the  park,  at  the  theatre.  They  would 
bow  —  a  brief,  formal  salute  —  and  pass  on. 

But  how  different  it  had  been !  In  that  sway- 
ing, throbbing  moment  when  she  saw  him  there 
before  her,  everything  else  was  swept  away.  In 
a  second  he  was  at  her  side. 


36  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Margaret ! "  And  then  he  had  half -led,  half- 
carried  her  up  the  steps,  out  of  the  subway  and 
into  a  passing  taxi.  From  that  first  second  she 
knew  in  both  their  minds  the  thought  that  they 
were  together  again  not  to  separate  was  as  in- 
stinctive as  it  was  fixed. 

But  for  the  half-smothered  exclamation  of  her 
name,  no  word  was  spoken  until  they  had  reached 
her  apartment.  To  Margaret  that  drive  was  only 
a  vague  memory  of  a  kaleidoscopic  mingling  of 
streets  and  buildings  which  wavered  before  her 
in  the  sunlight. 

And  the  first  half -hour  in  her  apartment  — 
she  had  no  coherent  memory  even  of  that.  She 
only  knew  that  she  had  broken  down  completely, 
and  that  all  the  anguish  and  heartache  of  these 
months  she  had  sobbed  out  in  his  arms. 

That  night,  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  knelt 
for  a  long  time  by  the  open  window,  looking  out 
over  the  city  with  its  myriad  lights.  How  often 
she  had  knelt  there  in  the  nights  past  —  the 
weight  of  her  loneliness  and  despair  so  heavy 
upon  her  that  she  had  sent  out  to  him  voiceless 
cries  for  help.  Knowing  he  was  somewhere  in 
that  great  seething  city,  and  by  some  power  of 


A     CHANCE     MEETING  37 

thought  he  might  feel  her  wordless  message  and 
come  to  her. 

But  now  her  thoughts  became  a  half-formed 
prayer  —  a  resolve  that  the  great  happiness  that 
had  come  to  her  to-day  should  never  be  the  cause 
of  bringing  unhappiness  to  any  one  else. 

She  repeated  his  words :  "  Under  conditions 
that  we  know  are  wrong  and  that  we  haven't  the 
strength  to  make  right  —  we  are  going  to  do  the 
best  we  can"  Yes,  they  would  do  the  best  they 
could. 


IV 
TOGETHER  AGAIN 

THE  happiness  of  the  weeks  that  followed 
was  intensified  by  the  long  period  of  suffer- 
ing that  had  gone  before.  "  Just  to  be  together 
again,"  a  phrase  that  was  constantly  on  Mar- 
garet's lips,  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  world  with 
joy. 

They  vied  with  each  other  now  in  accepting 
cheerfully  the  difficulties  of  their  position.  The 
few  hours  he  could  be  with  her  seemed  so  much 
after  the  silence  and  emptiness  of  the  months 
that  had  passed.  Just  a  note  or  a  few  words 
over  the  telephone  seemed  enough  to  fill  a  whole 
day  with  content. 

"  If  we  might  always  be  content  with  so  little," 
he  said  wistfully  one  day. 

"  We  will  —  we  will !  "  she  assured  him. 
"After  all,  suffering  has  its -salutary  lesson  — 
and  we  have  had  ours." 

The  first  word  of  protest,  of  discontent,  came 


TOGETHER     AGAIN  39 

from  him,  in  a  note  brought  her  by  a  messenger 
one  morning  about  a  month  later. 

Will  not  be  able  to  lunch  with  you  as  we  planned.  Have 
had  a  rather  high  fever  all  night,  and  aru  afraid  I  cannot 
even  go  down  to  the  office  to-day. 

If  I  could  only  see  you  for  a  few  moments  —  but  I  don't 
know  how  it  can  be  managed.  Some  one  is  constantly 
about,  so  I  cannot  even  'phone  from  here.  But  you  can  call 
me  up.  Should  the  maid  or  any  one  else  come  to  the  'phone 
just  say  you  are  a  client  and  wish  to  speak  to  me  personally. 
I  will  have  to  be  guarded  in  my  answers. 

How  I  hate  the  necessity  for  all  these  schemes  and  de- 
ceptions, and  I  know  you  do  too.  It  is  a  constant  humilia- 
tion to  us  both.  Yet  there  seems  to  be  no  other  way.  I 
feel  discouraged  this  morning  and  more  than  usually  re- 
bellious. I  want  to  be  with  you  openly,  without  the  need 
for  all  these  evasions  and  falsehoods. 

I  came  down  to  the  library  this  morning,  and  am  lying 
on  the  couch  here.  The  'phone  is  in  this  room,  and  to  be  by 
it  seems  to  bring  me  nearer  you.  Will  try  to  send  another 
note  this  evening.  You  must  not  worry.  It  is  nothing 
serious.  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  days. 

He  was  ill  —  and  she  could  not  be  with  him ! 
Her  heart  cried  out  bitterly  against  the  condi- 
tions that  kept  her  from  him  now.  All  the 
mother-love,  that  in  some  degree  every  woman 
gives  to  the  man  she  loves,  was  now  aroused. 
She  wanted  to  nurse  him,  to  soothe  and  comfort 
him,  to  wait  on  and  croon  over  him  until  he  was 
well.  And  she  could  not  even  see  him! 


40  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

With  eyes  full  of  tears  she  turned  through  the 
telephone  book.  As  familiar  as  was  his  office 
number,  she  had  never  telephoned  to  his  home. 
"  Whitman,  Graham  K.  Res.  3240  River." 

She  went  over  to  the  'phone.  What  should  she 
say?  What  could  she  say  that  would  cheer  him? 
He  had  written  that  he  was  discouraged.  She 
gave  the  number  to  Central.  There  was  a  long 
wait.  Her  heart  beat  fast.  The  sound  of  a  re- 
ceiver being  taken  from  the  hook,  and  then  — 
his  voice! 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  answered !  I  was  afraid 
it  would  be  some  one  else." 

"  I've  been  lying  here  watching  the  'phone  and 
wondering  when  it  would  ring.  Fortunately, 
just  at  this  moment  I'm  alone.  I  wonder  if  you 
know  how  much  I've  been  thinking  about  you  all 
morning." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  ill !  And  I  can't  be  with  you 
—  I  can't  even  see  you !  " 

"I  know.     It  all  seems  wrong  somehow." 

"  But  if  you  should  become  very  ill  —  too  ill 
to  send  me  any  message?  How  could  I  hear 
from  you  ?  Tell  me  now  so  I  will  know." 

"  I  can't  now  —  I  hear  some  one  coming. 
Don't  worry.  I'll  be  all  right,"  And  then,  in 


TOGETHER    AGAIN  41 

an  entirely  different  voice,  a  curt  business  voice : 
"  Yes,  I  expect  to  be  down  to  the  office  in  a  few 


"  Is  some  one  with  you  now?  "  she  asked  almost 
in  a  whisper,  as  though  afraid  her  voice  would 
carry  beyond  him. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  will  try  to  send  me  some  message  this 
evening?  "  still  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  will  say  good-bye  now ;  I  can't  bear 
to  talk  to  you  like  this." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  with  an  unreasoning 
sense  of  hurt.  Even  though  she  knew  the  ne- 
cessity for  the  brief  curtness  of  his  replies,  she 
could  not  but  feel  chilled.  That  she  should  have 
come  into  the  room  just  then.  She  pictured  her 
waiting  on  him,  looking  after  his  medicine  and 
nourishment  with  an  air  of  authority  and  owner- 
ship. In  vain  she  tried  to  keep  the  bitterness 
out  of  her  heart. 

The  day  passed,  filled  with  anxious  thoughts. 
When  dusk  came  and  brought  no  further  mes- 
sage, her  anxiety  increased.  Six  —  seven  o'clock 
—  and  still  no  word  from  him. 

She  hesitated  to  telephone  again.     If  he  had 


42  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

found  it  impossible  to  even  send  her  a  note,  it 
might  not  be  wise  for  her  to  'phone.  It  was 
about  half  past  seven  when  at  length  she  yielded 
to  an  impulse  that  had  been  hovering  in  her 
thoughts  all  day.  She  would  drive  by  his  house ! 
She  would  get  as  near  him  as  she  could.  Just 
to  pass  by  his  home  might  help  to  ease  her  rest- 
less anxiety. 

Hurriedly  she  slipped  into  her  wraps  and 
ordered  a  taxi.  The  chauffeur  stared  at  her  un- 
usual directions  —  merely  to  drive  to  West 

Street  and  then  go  very  slowly  through  that 
street. 

It  was  the  theatre  hour  and  they  passed  many 
cabs  and  carriages  from  which  gleamed  light 
gowns  and  jewels.  She  wished  the  driver  had 
taken  a  less  crowded  thoroughfare ;  just  now  she 
shrank  from  this  atmosphere  of  gaiety. 

When  they  neared  the  street,  she  leaned  for- 
ward tensely.  Just  one  more  block  now!  One 
hundred  and  eighty-seven  was  the  number. 
With  strained  eyes  she  followed  the  numbers, 
181  — 183  — 185  — 187 !  A  large  grey  stone 
house,  with  an  air  of  almost  stern  severity. 
Lights  glimmered  behind  drawn  blinds  only  on 


TOGETHER     AGAIN  43 

the  first  floor;  the  second  and  third  story  win- 
dows were  dark. 

At  the  corner  she  had  the  cabman  turn  and 
drive  back  slowly  through  the  same  street.  As 
they  passed  the  house  again  a  light  flashed  sud- 
denly in  the  second  story,  and  an  arm  with  a 
white  frilled  sleeve  drew  down  one  of  the  shades. 

Margaret  leaned  back  with  a  sudden  faintness. 
It  was  not  the  sleeve  of  a  maid  or  nurse.  It  was 
the  lace  frilled  sleeve  of  a  house  gown! 

"  Where  to  now,  ma'am?  "  It  was  the  driver's 
voice.  He  repeated  it  again  before  she  heard 
him.  She  started,  and  then  answered  dully, 
"  Back  to  the  hotel." 

That  night  she  spent  in  sleepless  tossing. 
Only  toward  morning  she  fell  asleep,  and  then 
it  was  to  dream  that  she  was  at  the  gates  of  a 
wonderful  garden.  From  within  came  the  sound 
of  music  and  happy  voices,  and  through  it  all 
she  heard  his  voice  calling  her,  calling  her  again 
and  again  in  tones  of  tenderest  longing.  The 
way  was  open,  she  started  forward,  stumbling  in 
her  eagerness,  when  suddenly  an  arm  with  a 
white  frilled  sleeve  closed  fast  the  high  iron 
gates.  She  beat  against  them  until  her  hands 


44  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

were  bruised  and  bleeding,  but  her  cries  were 
unanswered  and  she  was  left  alone  in  a  dreary 
wilderness. 

At  ten  the  next  day  there  was  still  no  message. 
Was  he  worse?  Was  he  too  ill  to  write?  Filled 
with  dread  and  anxiety,  she  stood  at  the  window 
looking  down  at  the  street  below,  watching  for 
a  blue-coated  messenger  who  might  be  bringing 
some  word.  Twice  she  saw  one  approaching,  an 
envelope  in  his  hand.  Her  heart  leaped.  But 
each  time  the  boy  passed  on. 

At  any  risk  she  must  know  how  he  was.  She 
would  telephone.  It  was  a  maid  that  answered, 
she  spoke  brokenly  and  her  voice  was  hard  to 
understand.  Mr.  Whitman  was  sick,  she  said, 
and  could  not  come  to  the  'phone.  And  when 
Margaret  asked  if  he  was  very  ill  —  worse  than 
he  was  yesterday  —  she  answered  that  she  did 
not  know,  that  the  doctor  was  with  him  now! 
To  Margaret  those  words  seemed  weighted  with 
terror. 

There  are  times  in  every  one's  life  when  they 
are  swept  on  to  some  rash  act,  knowing  it  is  so, 
and  yet  being  unable  to  control  the  impulse  that 
forces  them  on.  And  so  Margaret  was  now  help- 
less before  the  reckless  compelling  desire  to  go 


TOGETHER     AGAIN  45 

to  him  —  to  see  Mm  if  possible,  if  not  to  learn 
from  some  one  there,  from  some  one  who  knew, 
just  how  ill  he  was.  Why  should  she  not  go  —  a 
client  calling  on  some  urgent  matter!  No  one 
there  knew  her! 

Once  more  she  slipped  into  her  wraps  and 
ordered  a  taxi.  When  she  gave  the  address  to 
the  driver,  there  was  a  curious  note  of  mingled 
defiance  and  fear  in  her  voice. 

The  long  ride  through  crowded  thoroughfarest 
then  the  same  street,  the  same  house  — 181! 
The  cab  stopped.  The  man  sprang  from  his  seat 
and  opened  the  door.  For  just  a  second  Mar- 
garet shrank  back.  And  then,  with  a  sick  beat- 
ing of  her  heart  and  her  limbs  weak  with  trem- 
bling, she  stepped  out  and  went  up  the  steps. 

A  trim  maid  opened  the  door.  She  entered  the 
reception  room  and  gave  the  girl  her  card. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Mr.  Whitman." 

"  Mr.  Whitman  is  ill,  ma'am.  I'm  afraid  you 
cannot  see  him." 

"Will  you  take  him  the  card?"  There  was 
something  in  her  low  tense  voice  that  made  the 
girl  hesitate,  then  turn  to  do  her  bidding. 

In  spite  of  the  tumultuous  agitation  of  her 
thoughts,  Margaret  was  keenly  conscious  of 


46  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

every  detail  of  the  room,  of  the  brooding  silence 
of  the  house,  the  hushed  pause  that  seemed  over 
everything. 

This  was  his  home.  These  things  he  saw  and 
touched  daily.  All  this  was  a  part  of  his  life  — 
the  life  he  shared  with  another  woman.  These 
things  were  their  common  property.  She  had  no 
part  in  it ;  in  all  this  great  house  there  was  noth- 
ing she  could  claim.  For  a  second  she  had  a 
fierce  desire  to  take  something  away  with  her, 
to  assert  to  herself  the  right  to  it  because  it  was 
his.  Her  eyes  rested  on  a  cabinet  in  the  corner 
—  it  was  full  of  small  trinkets.  She  half  moved 
toward  it  —  then  turned  quickly  away,  a  deep 
colour  flooding  her  face. 

Now  came  the  sound  of  voices  from  the  hall. 

"  I  find  him  some  better  this  morning,  Mrs. 
Whitman.  His  temperature  may  go  up  again 
this  evening,  but  it'll  not  be  as  high  as  it  was 
yesterday." 

"  But,  doctor,  he  insists  on  being  brought  down 
into  the  library.  I  don't  think  that's  wise,  do 
you?" 

"  Well,  no ;  perhaps  not  for  a  day  or  two  yet. 
It's  just  as  well  to  keep  him  as  quiet  as  you  can." 

He  was  better!    He  was  not  seriously  ill! 


TOGETHER     AGAIN  47 

Margaret  forgot  everything  in  the  joy  of  that! 
The  outer  door  closed  after  the  doctor,  then  a 
tall,  rather  austere  middle-aged  woman  entered 
the  room. 

"Miss  Warner?"  glancing  at  the  card  in  her 
hand.  "  Mr.  Whitman  is  quite  ill ;  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  see  any  one  this  morning. 
I  am  Mrs.  Whitman,  if  there  is  any  message  you 
wish  to  leave." 

"  No  —  no  —  thank  you,"  she  murmured.  "  It 
is  merely  a  matter  of  business  —  that  can  be 
postponed." 

Without  any  clear  memory  of  how  she  left  the 
house,  Margaret  found  herself  outside.  For 
blocks  she  walked  on  unmindful  of  the  direction. 
And  that  was  his  wife  —  his  wife!  In  those  few 
seconds  her  features  and  expression  had  been 
burnt  into  her  memory.  The  strongest  impres- 
sion had  been  that  of  a  cold  austerity.  And  she 
looked  so  much  older  than  he! 

An  obstructed  crossing  finally  brought  her  to 
a  consciousness  of  her  surroundings.  She  was 
in  a  neighbourhood  of  cheap  flats  and  many 
children.  Several  blocks  farther  on  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  an  elevated  structure.  She  made 
her  way  toward  it. 


48  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Would  he  know  that  she  had  been  there? 
Would  her  card  be  given  him?  What  would  he 
think?  Now  the  realisation  of  what  she  had 
done — of  how  it  might  appear  to  him  —  began 
to  assert  itself.  Her  face  burned.  Of  course  he 
would  know  it  was  her  anxiety  that  brought  her. 
And  yet  —  might  he  not  think  that  her  pride 
and  sense  of  reserve  should  have  been  stronger 
even  than  that? 

When  she  reached  the  hotel,  there  was  a  note 
awaiting  her.  The  clerk  said  it  had  come  just  a 
few  moments  after  she  left. 

All  yesterday  afternoon  and  evening  I  tried  to  get  some 
word  to  you.  But  it  was  impossible.  Some  one  was  with 
me  every  moment.  I  knew  it  must  seem  to  you  that  I 
should  have  found  some  way.  But  I  was  afraid  to  arouse 
suspicions  that  might  make  it  difficult  for  us  in  the  future. 
I  am  better  this  morning,  and  am  looking  forward  to  seeing 
you  in  a  few  days. 

If  she  had  only  waited  —  just  a  few  moments 
more !  Now,  with  the  knowledge  of  his  improve- 
ment, her  fears  and  anxiety  seemed  groundless. 
Why  had  she  done  this  thing?  She  had  not  only 
taken  an  unwarranted  risk,  but  one  that  had  in 
it  something  of  indelicacy,  almost  of  intrusion. 
And  she  had  always  been  so  proudly  reticent! 
A  torturing  sense  of  regret  and  humiliation  hung 


TOGETHER     AGAIN 49 

over  her,  until  about  five  o'clock  that  afternoon 
a  messenger  brought  her  another  note. 

I  have  just  learned  that  you  were  here.  Darling,  how 
dear  of  you  to  come!  I  know  now  how  anxious  you  were 
and  it  makes  you  seem  very  near  and  dear  to  me.  I  want 
to  assure  you  that  it  is  all  right.  I  thought  you  might  be 
worried  afterward.  I  was  simply  told  that  a  young  lady 
called  on  business.  Evidently  it  made  no  other  impression. 
Had  I  only  known  when  you  were  here,  nothing  could  have 
prevented  me  from  seeing  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  feel 
hurt,  dear,  at  the  way  it  happened.  You  are  so  sensitive 
that  I  am  afraid,  after  yielding  to  your  generous  impulse, 
you  may  now  regret  it.  Don't,  dear,  for  I  love  you  more 
than  ever  for  this  proof  of  your  love  and  anxiety. 

Margaret  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  note, 
thrilled  with  a  deeper  realisation  of  his  love  and 
thoughtfulness. 

It  was  over  a  week  before  he  could  leave  the 
house,  and  when  he  came  to  Margaret  she  was 
frightened  at  the  worn  haggardness  of  his  face. 
After  the  first  joy  of  their  meeting,  she  realised 
that  he  was  utterly  depressed  and  discouraged. 
Anxiously  she  pleaded  with  him  to  tell  her  what 
was  wrong. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  been  horrible !  I  don't  mean  the 
fever,  if  I  could  have  shut  myself  up  alone,  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  that.  But  she's  been  with 


50  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

me  day  and  night.  I  insisted  on  having  a  nurse, 
but  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  wanted  to  care 
for  me  herself.  She  slept  on  a  couch  in  my  room 
—  every  time  I  stirred  she  was  up.  It  seemed 
as  though  she  was  trying,  by  her  devotion,  to 
draw  me  back.  For  weeks  I  think  she's  felt  that 
I've  not  been  the  same,  that  in  some  way  I  was 
drifting  away  from  her.  She  doesn't  suspect  the 
real  cause  yet  —  but  sooner  or  later  she  will." 

"  And  if  she  should  learn  the  truth?  "  breathed 
Margaret. 

"If  she  should  learn  the  truth  ...  I  don't 
know  what  she  would  do  —  I  don't  know.  I'm 
afraid  it  would  be  something  desperate.  While 
I  was  sick  I  dreamt  that  they  brought  her  home 
to  me  unconscious  —  dying.  I  saw  them  carry- 
ing her  up  the  stairs.  She  had  hurled  herself 
in  front  of  a  train.  Then  I  awoke  to  find  her 
sitting  by  my  bed,  reading.  It  struck  me  as  par- 
ticularly pitiful  that  she  had  rouged  her  cheeks 
and  wore  her  most  elaborate  negligee  as  though 
to  lure  me  back  with  those  charms.  And  in  spite 
of  her  efforts  she  looked  so  old  and  worn.  And 
all  the  time  I  knew  the  certain  wretchedness  that 
I  was  bringing  her  in  one  form  or  another.  Oh, 
it's  all  been  ghastly!" 


TOGETHER     AGAIN  51 

"  No  —  no,  listen,  dear !  You  mustn't  say  that 
—  that  you  are  bringing  her  certain  wretched- 
ness. You  know  from  the  beginning  we  both 
said  we  would  make  any  sacrifice  rather  than  let 
it  ruin  her  life ! " 

"  We  said  that  then,  but  now  I  know  I  could 
not  do  it.  That  was  one  of  the  things  I  realised 
while  I  was  sick  —  that  whatever  happened  I 
could  not  give  you  up."  He  drew  her  toward 
him  with  a  fierce  tenderness.  "  I  know  now  that 
I  never  can." 

And  for  the  moment  she  forgot  all  their 
difficulties,  all  the  complications  that  sur- 
rounded them,  in  the  joy  and  sweetness  of  his 
love. 

Just  before  he  left,  he  said  hesitatingly: 

"What  shall  we  do,  dear,  about  Sunday? 
You  know  we  planned  last  week  for  a  long  drive 
this  Sunday,  and  I've  been  looking  forward  to 
it  all  these  days.  But  now,  Mrs.  Whitman  is 
insisting  that  I  take  her  to  Bronxville  to  spend 
Saturday  and  Sunday  with  her  sister.  She  says 
the  change  will  do  us  both  good.  What  can  I 
do?  She's  worn  out  with  waiting  on  me  and 
really  does  need  a  change.  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  refuse  to  go,  yet  it  seems  so  hard  to  give 


52  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

up  our  outing.  I  don't  think  it's  ever  seemed 
quite  so  hard  before." 

"  And  she  won't  go  without  you?  " 

"  That's  the  trouble,  she  won't  go  anywhere 
without  me." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  go  with  her.  I  under- 
stand how  impossible  it  would  be  to  refuse  her 
this  now.  We  can  have  our  drive  some  other 
time."  She  tried  to  say  it  cheerfully. 

But  when  he  had  gone  Margaret  found  herself 
dwelling  on  the  thought  that  he  had  not  wanted 
Mrs.  Whitman  to  nurse  him;  she  need  not  have 
worn  herself  out.  He  had  insisted  on  having  a 
nurse,  and  she  had  not  permitted  it.  She  had 
wanted  to  strengthen  her  claim,  her  sense  of  pos- 
session which  she  felt  had  been  slipping  away. 

And  yet  —  could  she  blame  her?  Would  she 
not  do  the  same  in  her  place?  It  was  the 
primitive  woman  fighting  for  her  mate.  Many 
thoughts  now  forced  themselves  upon  Margaret 
that  she  tried  to  shut  out.  She  had  not  the 
courage  to  face  them.  She  wanted  to  get  away 
from  them  and  from  herself. 

With  a  sickening  sense  of  her  own  weakness, 
she  slipped  down  and  knelt  by  her  chair.  In  her 
mind  was  a  vague  unformulated  prayer  that  in 


TOGETHER     AGAIN  53 

some  way  her  love  might  be  made  right  —  that 
it  might  bring  no  unhappiness  to  this  other 
woman.  Could  not  such  a  love  exist,  a  strong, 
pure  love  that  asked  only  to  love  and  be  loved, 
without  bringing  misery  to  others? 

Had  fate  given  her  this  glimpse  of  the  most 
beautiful  thing  that  had  ever  come  into  her  life, 
only  that  it  might  be  renounced?  Must  she  try 
to  crush  it  out —  to  kill  it?  It  would  be  like 
killing  some  living  thing.  Her  brain  ached  with 
the  burden  of  doubts  and  questions  that  pressed 
upon  her. 


WEAKENING 

MARGARET  found  herself  more  and  more 
drawing  away  from  the  people  she  knew 
and  living  only  for  the  hours  they  spent  together. 
In  spite  of  his  frequent  assertion  that,  as  he 
could  be  with  her  so  little,  he  wished  her  to  have 
all  the  diversion  she  could,  he  was  intensely  jeal- 
ous of  every  other  interest,  however  trivial,  in 
her  life. 

If  her  telephone  rang  while  he  was  there,  he 
would  become  silent  and  morose,  and  once  re- 
marked bitterly  that  he  was  always  being  re- 
minded of  the  attention  showered  on  her  by 
others.  If  he  called  unexpectedly  and  found  her 
out,  he  would  immediately  infer  that  she  was 
driving  or  dining  with  some  one  else. 

Again  and  again  she  insisted  that  she  would 
gladly  give  up  what  little  social  life  she  had. 
But  to  this  he  would  not  agree.  He  seemed  never 
to  realise  the  illogicalness  of  his  attitude  in  per- 
sisting that  she  make  no  change  in  her  social  life, 

54 


WEAKENING  55 

and  yet  becoming  so  bitter  over  every  incident 
that  resulted  from  it. 

One  afternoon  he  chanced  to  call  while  Mr. 
Kenton,  an  editor  of  a  magazine  for  which  Mar- 
garet often  wrote,  was  there.  She  introduced 
them  with  an  easy  grace,  but  her  heart  beat  with 
misgiving.  Kenton,  unconscious  of  anything 
critical  in  the  situation,  carried  the  conversa- 
tion along  without  effort.  But  Graham  Whit- 
man sat  silent,  his  eyes  dark  with  the  rancour 
within  him. 

When  Kenton  had  gone,  Margaret  stood  dis- 
mayed before  the  fierce  bitterness  of  his  jealousy. 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  make  a  social  friend  of  an 
editor?  Simply  because  he  publishes  some  of 
your  work  does  not  give  him  the  right  to  call  on 
you  socially." 

"  He  only  called  about  those  proofs.  He  has 
always  been  interested  in  my  work." 

"Proofs?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that's 
a  mere  pretext?  It's  not  your  work  he  is  in- 
terested in  —  but  you!  He's  even  presumed  to 
send  you  flowers !  " 

"  But  that  was  when  I  was  ill." 

"  What  right  has  he  to  send  you  flowers  at 
all?  " 


56  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

She  made  no  reply.  She  felt  the  uselessness 
of  any  argument.  He  was  in  one  of  his  unreason- 
able jealous  moods  when  nothing  she  could  say 
or  do  would  help.  He  was  walking  nervously 
up  and  down  the  room.  At  length  he  came  over 
and  drew  her  toward  him. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  dear,  I  know  I'm  unreasonable, 
but  I  can't  help  it.  It  is  like  hot  irons  searing 
my  heart  when  I  have  to  stand  quietly  by  and 
see  other  men  pay  you  attentions,  other  men 
who  are  free  to  offer  everything,  while  I  am  tied 
and  helpless."  He  clenched  his  hands.  "  It's 
intolerable!  I  feel  that  I'm  only  standing  in 
your  way." 

"  Ah,  don't  say  that  —  when  you  know  .  .  ." 

"  But  I've  nothing  to  offer  you !  I  can  give 
you  only  stolen  scraps  of  my  time.  I  am  bound 
hand  and  foot  to  a  woman  that  I  can't  desert. 
If  she  were  a  younger  woman,  or  less  dependent. 
.  .  .  But  to  desert  her  now,  when  her  need  for 
me  is  so  great  .  .  .  you  could  never  respect  me, 
and  I  could  never  respect  myself.  That  would 
always  be  between  us." 

"  Oh,  no  —  no,  you  can't  leave  her.  You  told 
me  that  in  the  beginning,  and  I  said  you  were 


WEAKENING  57 

right.  I  meant  it  then,  and  I  still  mean  it! 
You  must  believe  that  I  do ! " 

"  You've  been  very  sweet  and  brave  about  it, 
and  very  patient.  But  that  does  not  alter  the 
facts.  It  only  makes  me  feel  more  keenly  how 
weak  I've  been  in  accepting  your  generosity,  in 
letting  you  give  up  your  future  for  a  man  in  my 
position." 

A  moment's  silence  and  then  he  went  on  mus- 
ingly, 

"  If  only  she  were  a  woman  to  whom  money 
would  be  a  compensation,  I  would  secure  my  free- 
dom, sign  over  to  her  every  cent  I  have  and  be- 
gin again  to  work  for  you.  But  she  is  not  a 
mercenary  woman,  at  least  not  in  that  sense. 
No  amount  of  money  would  compensate  for  a 
separation  from  me.  And  lately  she's  been  so 
fearfully  suspicious !  She  watches  every  move  I 
make.  I'm  constantly  having  to  tell  her  small 
falsehoods.  And  I  hate  to  lie !  " 

"  But  she  knows  nothing?  "  quiveringly. 

"  No,  but  she  is  beginning  to  notice  a  difference. 
I've  tried  very  hard  to  be  just  the  same  to  her 
in  every  way,  but  I  find  myself  unconsciously 
trying  to  avoid  her.  The  other  night  when  I 


58  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

went  home  she  came  up  to  kiss  me.  I  had  just 
been  thinking  of  you,  and  instinctively  I  shrank 
from  her  caress.  I  saw  her  grow  white.  She 
said  nothing  at  the  time,  but  she  watched  me 
furtively  all  through  dinner. 

"  After  dinner  she  wanted  to  go  to  the  theatre. 
I  was  tired  and  worried,  and  I'd  hoped  to  be 
alone  part  of  the  evening  that  I  might  write  to 
you.  I  felt  I  couldn't  sit  through  one  of  those 
mawkish  sentimental  plays  she  always  selects. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  the  drama  I  was  living  was 
too  real  and  too  terrible  to  witness  any  weak 
travesty  on  life  and  love. 

"  I  tried  to  make  some  excuse,  but  she  was  hurt 
and  displeased.  I've  sacrificed  my  own  inclina- 
tions to  hers  for  so  long  that  now  it's  impossible 
to  change  my  habits  without  arousing  her  keen- 
est suspicions.  If  I  had  done  as  other  men,  be- 
longed to  three  or  four  clubs  and  spent  half  of 
my  evenings  away  from  home — it  wouldn't  be 
so  difficult  now." 

He  had  never  talked  so  intimately  of  his  life 
before.  He  was  naturally  a  very  reticent  man, 
but  now  the  desire  to  put  everything  before  her 
that  she  might  understand  it  all  was  stronger 
than  his  innate  reserve. 


WEAKENING  59 

"  At  college  I  was  filled  with  an  intense  liter- 
ary ambition.  All  my  spare  time  I  worked  on  a 
book  on  social  ethics.  But  after  we  married  I 
gave  it  all  up  for  her,  except  a  few  articles  I 
wrote  now  and  then  at  the  office.  She's  not  a 
literary  woman  in  any  sense,  and  she  was  jealous 
of  the  time  I  put  on  the  book.  She  insisted  that 
if  I  was  at  the  office  all  day,  I  should  devote  my 
evenings  to  her. 

"  It  makes  me  heart-sick  when  I  think  of  all 
those  wasted  years.  I  realise  now  that  she  has 
sapped  the  strength  of  my  ambitions  and  dwarfed 
my  whole  mental  life.  It  is  not  entirely  her 
fault  —  I  should  have  asserted  my  right  to  a 
certain  amount  of  independent  and  individual 
life.  But  I  began  by  yielding ;  I  followed  the  line 
of  least  resistance.  And  then,  too,  I  had  the 
theory  that  if  in  this  marriage  I  could  not  be 
happy  myself,  it  was  at  least  something  to  feel 
that  I  was  making  her  happy.  And  I  think  her 
greatest  happiness  is  in  her  sense  of  absolute 
ownership  of  me,  in  the  satisfaction  she  derives 
from  her  feeling  of  possession." 

He  had  ceased  speaking;  he  was  gazing  out 
of  the  window  with  eyes  that  were  full  of  bitter 
despair.  Margaret  longed  to  comfort  and  help 


60  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

him,  but  she  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  She 
felt  keenly  her  helplessness. 

That  he  was  growing  to  chafe  more  and  more 
under  the  tyranny  of  his  home  life,  she  knew, 
and  she  was  afraid  of  the  gradual  change  in  her 
own  feeling.  The  sense  of  pity  and  sympathy 
she  had  at  first  felt  for  his  wife  was  changing 
to  one  of  resentment  and  antagonism.  She  real- 
ised the  danger  of  that.  She  must  not  encourage 
this  attitude  either  in  herself  or  in  him.  She 
still  shrank  from  the  thought  of  building  their 
happiness  on  another  woman's  misery.  So  now 
she  only  slipped  her  hand  into  his  in  silent  sym- 
pathy. He  covered  it  with  both  his  own. 

"  How  selfish  I  am  to  inflict  all  this  on  you. 
You've  enough  to  bear  without  being  burdened 
with  my  part  of  it.  Poor  little  girl  —  and  you 
bear  it  so  patiently.  And  I've  tried  to  keep  you 
cooped  up  here  away  from  every  one,  on  account 
of  my  morbid  jealousy.  But  from  now  on  I  want 
you  to  have  all  the  social  pleasure  and  diversion 
you  can,  I  don't  think  I'll  hurt  you  about  it 


She  smiled  a  little  sadly.  She  had  come  to 
realise  this  weakness  of  his  love.  She  knew  that 
whatever  he  might  feel  now,  to-morrow  or  the 


WEAKENING  61 

next  day  he  would  be  as  blindly  and  unreason- 
ably jealous  as  ever.  In  everything  else  he  was 
absolutely  fair-minded  and  just,  but  in  this  one 
thing  his  mind  seemed  perverted,  he  distorted 
and  exaggerated  and  misconstrued  the  most  triv- 
ial incident. 

But  in  spite  of  all  their  difficulties  and  mis- 
understandings they  had  many  hours  of  unin- 
terrupted happiness,  when  they  both  felt  that  life 
was  giving  them  of  its  best.  Hours  of  tender- 
ness and  love  and  happy  wanderings,  when  they 
seemed  very  near  each  other  and  strong  enough 
in  their  love  to  triumph  over  any  obstacles  that 
might  arise. 


VI 
KATHERINE 

ONE  evening  as  Margaret  was  going  down 
to  a  lonely  dinner  at  the  hotel,  he  tele- 
phoned to  ask  if  she  would  go  to  dinner  with 
him.  She  assented  joyfully;  it  was  so  rarely 
that  he  could  take  her  to  dinner.  He  said  he 
would  come  for  her  at  once  —  in  half  an  hour. 

She  put  on  her  things  with  eager  happiness. 
How  did  it  happen,  she  wondered,  that  he  could 
be  with  her  this  evening.  The  few  dinners  they 
had  had  together  had  always  been  planned  in 
advance,  so  that  he  might  make  the  excuse  of  an 
out-of-town  client.  Very  often  he  would  'phone 
her  and  they  would  have  unexpected  luncheons 
or  trips  in  the  afternoon,  but  never  before  had 
they  had  dinner  in  this  way. 

She  was  all  ready  when  he  came.  Their  mo- 
ments  together  were  so  precious  that  she  never 
wasted  any  of  them  by  keeping  him  waiting. 

He  held  her  hands  tenderly.     "  You  are  won- 

62 


KATHERINE  63 

derful  to-night.  You  seem  bubbling  over  with, 
happiness." 

"  I  know,"  she  laughed.  "  It's  so  lovely  to  be 
with  you  like  this.  How  did  it  happen?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  at  dinner.  Where 
shall  we  go?" 

"Does  it  matter  much  where  we  go  as  long 
as  we're  together?  " 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "  No,  I  don't  think 
it  does." 

They  decided  on  a  quiet  up-town  place,  where 
the  music  was  unobtrusive  and  the  service  ex- 
cellent. On  the  way  there,  she  asked  him  again 
how  he  happened  to  be  free,  and  again  he  put 
the  question  aside. 

"  I'll  tell  you  after  dinner.  We're  going  to 
make  it  a  happy  dinner,  are  we  not?  " 

She  understood.  He  wanted  to  think  of  noth- 
ing now,  but  just  their  being  together.  Other 
things  might  lead  to  the  feeling  of  depression 
and  discouragement  that  so  often  came  over  him. 

And  it  was  a  happy  dinner.  They  both 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  it  with  a  joyous  aban- 
donment. She  had  never  seen  him  more  boyish, 
more  responsive.  It  was  as  though  he  were  try- 
ing to  throw  off  all  feeling  of  gloom,  to  wrest 


64<  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

from  the  present  hour  all  the  happiness  that  it 
held. 

It  was  not  until  the  dinner  was  almost  over 
that  he  brought  up  the  subject  himself. 

"  I  came  because  I  could  not  help  it. —  Because 
I  felt  I  would  say  or  do  something  desperate  if 
I  had  to  sit  through  dinner  to-night  listening 
to  a  conversation  about  millinery  and  curtains. 
I  had  about  all  of  it  I  could  stand  this  after- 
noon." 

Margaret  looked  her  astonishment. 

"  For  over  a  week  Mrs.  Whitman  has  been  ask- 
ing me  to  go  with  her  to  help  select  a  hat." 

"A  hat?"  incredulously. 

"That's  been  part  of  my  bondage,"  bitterly. 
"  For  years  she's  not  bought  a  hat  unless  I've 
been  with  her.  I've  never  been  able  to  see  where 
I  was  of  the  least  assistance.  After  trying  on 
every  hat  in  the  shop,  she  finally  hesitates  be- 
tween two.  And  then,  in  order  to  get  away 
quicker,  I  advise  her  to  take  both.  It's  been 
the  same  every  Spring  and  Fall  for  years. 
Every  day  for  a  week  now  she  has  been  asking 
me  to  go.  So  when  she  telephoned  down  to  the 
office  this  afternoon,  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
go  and  have  it  over. 


KATHERINE  65 

"  While  we  were  out,  she  insisted  on  getting 
some  dining  room  curtains.  I  demurred  at  the 
curtains,  said  I  was  sure  she  could  select  them 
better  alone.  Then  I  remembered  a  hall  rug 
she  bought  last  week,  after  urging  me  to  go  with 
her.  She's  been  complaining  about  it  ever  since. 
Say's  it's  too  large,  not  the  right  colouring  — 
that  if  I'd  gone  with  her  she'd  never  have  bought 
it. 

"  So  I  thought  it  might  be  easier  to  go  with 
her  for  the  curtains.  The  strangest  thing  about 
it  is  that  I  know  nothing  of  these  things,  I  never 
make  a  suggestion  —  she  does  it  all.  Yet  she 
always  seems  satisfied  with  what  she  gets  if  I'm 
with  her,  and  dissatisfied  with  them  if  I'm  not." 

He  paused,  his  eyes  fixed  broodingly  on  the 
wine  glass  he  was  moving  back  and  forth  by  his 
plate. 

"  Naturally,  I've  always  disliked  it,  but  I  never 
felt  quite  the  repulsion  that  I  did  to-day.  I 
took  her  home,  then  said  that  I'd  forgotten  some- 
thing at  the  office,  for  her  not  to  wait  dinner, 
that  I  couldn't  be  back  in  time.  I  left  in  the 
midst  of  her  protests.  I  had  to  get  away,  I 
couldn't  go  through  a  long  dinner  listening  to 
her  comments  on  the  afternoon  shopping,  won- 


66  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

dering  if  the  hats  were  really  worth  what  she 
paid,  and  if  the  curtains  might  not  have  been 
cheaper  somewhere  else." 

"  But  you  said  she  wasn't  mercenary." 

"She  isn't  —  that  is  she's  not  grasping  or 
avaricious  for  herself.  Several  times  I've  sug- 
gested putting  certain  stocks  and  property  in  her 
name,  but  she  never  wanted  it.  And  often  when 
I  give  her  money,  she'll  return  part  of  it,  saying 
that  she  doesn't  need  it  all.  Yet  she  spends 
hours  studying  advertisements  in  the  papers,  try- 
ing to  find  where  she  can  get  a  certain  article 
for  the  least  money.  To  buy  something  for  a 
few  cents  less  than  it  is  worth  seems  to  afford 
her  the  greatest  satisfaction.  It  is  the  small- 
ness  —  the  pettiness  of  it  all  that  .  .  ." 

His  voice  broke. 

"  How  contemptible  it  is  for  me  to  be  talk- 
ing of  her  in  this  way!  I  can't  understand  it, 
but  more  and  more  lately,  I  find  myself  wanting 
to  tell  you  everything.  I  seem  to  forget  all  sense 
of  loyalty  to  her.  And  for  all  these  years  it's 
been  part  of  my  creed  that  no  one  should  know 
—  that  if  I  couldn't  give  her  love  I  could  at  least 
give  her  an  absolute  loyalty.  And  now  —  I'm 
not  giving  even  that ! " 


KATHERINE  67 

"Ah,  don't  — don't  say  that!  After  all,  if 
we  really  love  any  one,  it's  only  natural  to  want 
to  talk  to  that  one  of  everything  that's  in  our 
heart.  I  don't  think  you  should  blame  yourself 
too  much." 

But  the  moodiness  and  depression  that  she  had 
learned  to  dread  seemed  with  him  again,  and  she 
tried  in  vain  to  banish  it.  The  charm  of  the 
early  part  of  the  dinner  was  broken. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  restaurant,  a  slender 
woman  in  evening  gown,  who  was  dining  with  a 
man  at  a  near-by  table,  rose  and  came  swiftly 
toward  them. 

"Margaret!    Margaret  Warner!" 

Margaret  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment, 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me  —  don't  you  know 
me?" 

"  Katherine  Beeves?  "  she  stammered. 

It  was  an  old  school  friend,  the  most  intimate 
companion  of  Margaret's  early  girlhood,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  the  surprise  and 
pleasure  of  this  meeting  was  mutual. 

Before  they  parted,  Katherine  insisted  that 
she  take  luncheon  with  her  to-morrow.  And 
then  added  laughingly: 

"  You'd  better  plan  to  stay  for  dinner,  too. 


68  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

We'll  hardly  have  time  to  talk  over  all  the  things 
we  want  to  at  a  luncheon.  Oh,  it  seems  so  won- 
derful that  we  should  both  be  in  New  York  and 
meet  in  this  way !  " 

When  they  were  outside,  Margaret  turned  to 
him  eagerly. 

"  Isn't  she  beautiful?  She's  grown  into  a  per- 
fectly beautiful  woman ! " 

As  he  made  no  answer  she  repeated  insistently : 

"Don't  you  think  so?  Don't  you  think  she's 
really  very  beautiful?" 

"  I  suppose  she  would  be  considered  so,"  he 
admitted  reservedly. 

"You  don't  like  her?  I  felt  that  while  we 
were  talking.  For  some  reason  you're  sorry  we 
met.  I  know  —  I  can  tell  by  your  voice." 

"  You  can't  expect  me  to  be  enthusiastic  over 
a  person  I  have  seen  for  only  a  few  moments. 
It  may  be  a  form  of  jealousy.  You  say  I  am  jeal- 
ous of  every  new  interest  that  comes  into  your 
life." 

"  But  it's  more  than  that  this  time,"  persisted 
Margaret.  "I  feel  that  you  do  not  like  her." 

"  She  wore  a  great  many  diamonds." 

"  Doesn't  almost  every  one  in  New  York?  " 


KATHERINE 69 

"  Possibly,  but  it  doesn't  follow  that  I  admire 
them." 

"It  was  more  than  the  diamonds,"  she  per- 
sisted. "  Tell  me,  seriously  dear,  what  it  was." 

"  It  was  only  an  impression,  perhaps  an  en- 
tirely unjust  one;  but  somehow  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  your  being  with  her  a  great  deal." 

The  morning  mist  had  turned  into  a  cold,  driz- 
zling rain,  when  Margaret  reached  Katherine's 
apartment  about  noon  the  next  day.  It  was  an 
imposing  white  facaded  building  on  Central 
Park  west.  A  boy  in  uniform  took  her  card, 
returning  in  a  few  moments  to  say  that  "Miss 
Eeeves  would  see  her,"  and  led  the  way  to  the 
elevator. 

Katherine  herself  opened  the  door,  kissed  her 
impulsively  and  drew  her  into  a  luxuriously  fur- 
nished but  much  disordered  bedroom.  The  cur- 
tains were  drawn  and  the  room  was  brilliant 
with  electric  lights.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
perfume. 

"  Come  in  here  —  it's  so  much  cozier  than  the 
front  room.  Everything's  in  a  muss,  but  you 
won't  mind  that.  I've  kept  Marie  so  busy  this 


70  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

morning  manicuring  and  massaging  me  that  she 
hasn't  had  time  to  straighten  up  in  here." 

Although  it  was  after  twelve.  Katherine  was 
still  in  a  morning  gown  of  pale  blue  silk  with  a 
great  deal  of  lace.  And  Margaret  realised  even 
more  than  she  had  the  night  before  that  she  had 
grown  into  a  marvellously  beautiful  woman. 
And  now,  as  she  hovered  around  her,  taking  her 
things,  arranging  the  pillows  at  her  back,  seem- 
ing so  glad  to  have  her  there,  so  full  of  the  old 
joyous  affection  —  in  spite  of  Graham's  words, 
which  still  lingered  in  her  thoughts,  Margaret 
felt  for  her  a  strong  rush  of  tenderness. 

"There  now,  are  you  comfortable?  Marie!" 
she  called,  "you  might  bring  in  some  sherry. 
Oh,  yes  —  you  must  have  some.  It's  raw  and 
damp  out;  this  will  do  you  good." 

Somehow  it  all  brought  back  the  old  school 
days  in  which  Katherine  had  always  taken  care 
of  her,  waited  on  her,  mothered  her.  She  had 
had  many  faults,  faults  of  quick  temper,  of  reck- 
lessness, of  exaggeration,  even  of  untruthfulness, 
but  she  had  always  been  unselfishly  loving  and 
loyal. 

"Do  you  mind  these  lights?  Would  you 
rather  I'd  turn  them  off?  I  never  could  bear  a 


KATHERINE  71 

dark  rainy  day,  so  I  shut  it  out  and  turn  on  all 
the  lights." 

A  pretty  French  maid  came  in  now  with  a 
small  tray  on  which  was  a  decanter  and  a  couple 
of  glasses.  As  they  sipped  the  sherry,  Katherine 
asked  a  hundred  eager  questions,  wanting  to 
know  everything  at  once.  How  long  had  she 
been  in  New  York,  where  had  she  lived,  what  had 
she  been  doing,  why  had  they  not  met  before? 

Margaret  gave  only  a  very  brief  outline  of  the 
last  few  years,  and  then  turned  the  conversation 
to  the  events  in  Katherine's  career  since  they  had 
been  separated.  The  correspondence  that  had 
been  kept  up  for  the  first  few  months  had  soon 
lagged  and  finally  ceased  altogether. 

With  all  her  enthusiasm,  Katherine  told  of 
her  trip  abroad,  of  her  two  years'  study  of  music 
in  Berlin.  Then  she  had  gone  to  Paris,  had  sung 
a  number  of  soubrette  parts  in  the  Opera  Com- 
ique;  then  had  come  back  to  New  York  for  a 
season  of  concert  work,  and  now  — 

"  Now  I  —  I'm  engaged  to  some  one  I  dearly 
love  —  and  —  oh,  Margaret,  I'm  very,  very 
happy ! "  The  words  ended  in  a  whirl  as  she 
impetuously  threw  her  arms  around  Margaret 
and  kissed  her. 


72  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  I'm  so  glad,  dear  —  you  must  know  how 
glad  I  am,"  murmured  Margaret,  And  a  vague, 
nameless  dread  that  had  oppressed  her  ever  since 
she  entered  the  apartment  was  lifted.  She  had 
not  tried  to  analyse  the  feeling,  but  there  had 
been  something  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  room, 
the  luxurious  furnishings,  the  heavy  perfume, 
the  rich,  lace-covered  tea  gown  that  in  some  way 
had  all  impressed  her  with  a  vague  unpleasant- 


The  maid  came  in  now  and  announced  lunch- 
eon. Katherine  led  the  way  into  the  dining 
room. 

"  I  thought  you'd  rather  have  luncheon  here 
than  go  out.  We  can  be  so  much  more  alone  and 
we've  so  much  to  talk  about." 

It  was  a  small  but  pleasant  room.  The  pink 
shaded  candles  threw  a  soft  glow  over  the 
polished  mahogany  table  and  glittering  silver. 
A  large  drooping  bunch  of  pink  roses,  slightly 
faded,  stood  in  a  crystal  vase  on  the  sideboard. 

During  luncheon,  Katherine  did  not  again  di* 
rectly  refer  to  her  engagement.  The  presence 
of  the  maid  had  a  certain  restraint  on  their  con- 
versation. 

When  they  left  the  table  they  went  through 


KATHERINE  73 

into  the  front  room,  the  drawing  room  of  the 
apartment.  Two  large  low  windows  overlooked 
the  park.  The  furniture  was  gilt,  Louis  XV, 
and  was  richly  upholstered  in  pale  rose  damask. 
A  thick  velvet  carpet  of  the  same  light  shade 
covered  the  floor.  In  one  corner  stood  a  small 
grand  piano  in  white  enamelled  wood.  Beside 
being  over-ornate,  to  Margaret  it  all  seemed  en- 
tirely characterless.  It  reminded  her  of  the 
stage  setting  of  a  modern  society  play. 

But  Katherine's  attitude  was  so  plainly  ex- 
pectant of  some  notice  and  admiration  of  the 
room  that  Margaret  murmured  something  about 
it  being  "  very  attractive." 

"Yes,  isn't  it  attractive,"  repeated  Katherine 
brightly,  with  that  same  childish  pleasure  that 
she  had  always  had  when  anything  that  belonged 
to  her  was  admired.  "  I  love  that  shade  of  rose. 
And  isn't  this  a  beautiful  view  of  the  park?  " 

It  was  a  beautiful  view,  and  Margaret  could 
say  so  honestly. 

"  Why,  it's  stopped  raining !  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  take  a  drive?  I  want  you  to  see  *  Queen 
B.' —  she  is  a  perfect  beauty." 

"Do  you  keep  a  horse?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  with  an  unmistakable  note  of  pride. 


74  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Queen  B.  is  almost  famous.  Her  record  two 
years  ago  was  2 :13.  Of  course  she  isn't  racing 
now.  I  —  I  —  bought  her  last  Fall." 

A  thought  that  had  been  in  the  back-ground 
of  Margaret's  mind  was  now  forcing  itself  upon 
her :  the  income  with  which  to  meet  all  this  very 
evident  expense  —  there  had  been,  in  Katherine's 
outline  of  the  past  few  years,  nothing  to  account 
for  it. 

"  Come  in  here  while  I  dress.  It  isn't  three 
yet;  we'll  have  time  for  a  long  drive  before 
dark." 

When  they  were  again  in  her  bedroom,  she  took 
up  a  photograph  in  a  heavy  silver  frame  which 
stood  on  her  dressing  table,  and  handed  it  to 
Margaret. 

"  That's  his  picture  —  and  here's  another." 
From  a  jewel  case  she  drew  out  a  small  diamond- 
studded  locket. 

It  was  undoubtedly  the  face  of  a  very  hand- 
some man.  To  Margaret  it  suggested  the  typical 
well-groomed  clubman. 

"  Here  are  some  others  —  I've  a  lot  of  kodak 
pictures  of  him." 

She  was  searching  eagerly  through  a  box  filled 
with  unmounted  photographs. 


KATHERINE  75 

"  Here  he's  playing  golf.  And  here's  one 
taken  on  horseback.  This  is  on  the  lawn  of  his 
summer  home  at  Lake  Wood  —  here's  another  on 
the  veranda." 

"  Who's  the  young  boy  with  him  in  this  one  — 
the  one  on  the  lawn?  " 

Margaret  asked  the  question  thoughtlessly, 
merely  from  a  nervous  desire  to  say  something 
when  she  felt  that  some  comment  was  expected. 
To  her  surprise  Katherine  flushed,  hesitated,  and 
then  answered : 

"That  — that  is  Clyde  — his  son." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  he  had  been  married  be- 
fore," hastily,  trying  to  cover  the  embarrassing 
pause. 

Katherine's  face  was  now  crimson.  She  was 
staring  down  at  one  of  the  pictures  she  still  held 
in  her  hand.  There  was  a  silence  of  several  mo- 
ments. Then  she  said  with  a  desperate  tenseness 
to  her  voice : 

"  He  is  married  —  now.  I  think  I  would 
rather  tell  you  than  let  you  find  it  out." 

A  chill  weight  was  creeping  around  Margaret's 
heart. 

"  I  know  I  said  we  are  engaged  —  and  we  are. 
He's  never  been  happy  with  his  wife  —  he  ex- 


76  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

pects  to  get  a  divorce."  Katherine  was  now 
looking  at  her  almost  appealingly. 

"  Does  his  wife  care  for  him?"  Margaret  asked 
in  a  low  voice,  after  a  moment  of  strained  si- 
lence. 

"  She  doesn't  care  for  anything  except  money 
—  and  he'll  leave  her  plenty  of  that." 

"  But  the  child?  " 

Katherine  hesitated.  "Of  course  he  doesn't 
expect  to  get  the  separation  just  now  —  not  un- 
til the  boy  is  older.  It  may  not  be  for  a  year 
or  so  yet." 

The  telephone  rang  imperatively.  Katherine 
threw  down  the  photographs  and  hurried  across 
the  room.  On  the  wall,  near  her  bed  were  two 
telephones. 

"Hello!"  .  .  .  "Yes,"  with  a  joyous  note  in 
her  voice.  "Where?"  .  .  .  "Oh,  that's  why 
you  didn't  call  me  up  this  morning." 

Margaret  rose  and  went  into  the  front  room, 
far  over  by  the  window.  But  even  there  she 
could  not  help  but  hear. 

"  You'll  be  back  to-morrow  about  four?  "... 
"Oh,  did  you?"  .  .  .  "No,  it  hasn't  come  yet. 
It  may  be  down  in  the  office ;  they're  so  slow  here 
about  sending  up  packages."  ..."  I'm  just  go- 


KATHERINE  77 

ing  out.  I  think  Queen  B.  needs  some  exercise." 
.  .  .  "Yes."  .  .  .  "All  right,  good-bye." 

She  came  running  in  now,  her  eyes  shining 
and  her  whole  face  aglow. 

"  You  needn't  have  come  in  here.  He  just 
called  me  up  to  say  that  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Philadelphia,  and  that  he'd  sent  me  a  box  of  con- 
fections. There's  hardly  a  day  that  he  doesn't 
send  flowers  or  fruit." 

With  all  her  old  childish  irresponsibility,  she 
seemed  to  have  entirely  put  aside  their  conversa- 
tion of  a  few  moments  before. 

"Come  back  in  here.  I'll  dress  right  away 
now.  I  believe  the  sun's  coming  out  —  we'll 
have  a  wonderful  ride.  Oh,  first  I'll  see  if  that 
box  is  down  stairs." 

She  went  ovep  to  the  telephone  —  but  not  the 
one  she  had  used  before. 

"Hello!  Is  there  a  package  for  me  down 
there?"  ..."  Send  it  up  at  once." 

"  Yes,  it's  there  —  they're  bringing  it  up. 
Now  what  shall  I  wear?  " 

She  threw  open  a  closet  door,  displaying  in- 
numerable gowns.  A  dozen  or  more  high-heeled 
fancy  slippers  were  thrown  carelessly  on  the 
floor. 


78  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

The  telephone  rang  again  —  a  short,  uncertain 
ring. 

"  Oh,  that's  just  the  house  'phone  ringing  off," 
as  she  selected  a  light  grey  walking  suit.  "  You 
see,  I  have  two  'phones  —  one  is  a  private  wire 
to  Mr.  Walton's  office.  The  telephone  girls  here 
are  so  inquisitive,  it's  horrid  to  feel  that  they 
hear  everything  you  say.  So  he  had  that  put  in 
when  I  took  the  apartment." 

The  maid  entered  now  with  a  square  white 
package.  "  That  must  be  the  candy !  You  open 
it,  Margaret,  while  I  dress." 

With  a  curious  feeling  of  reluctance,  Margaret 
took  the  manicure  scissors  she  handed  her  and 
cut  the  string.  It  was  a  large  box  of  bon-bons, 
chocolates,  crystallized  fruits  and  flowers.  The 
box  was  fitted  with  small  trays,  each  holding  a 
different  confection. 

"  Try  some  of  those  candied  violets,"  suggested 
Katherine,  whose  hands  were  busy  just  then  with 
her  hair.  "  The  last  I  had  from  there  were  deli- 
cious." 

"  No,  not  now.  I  don't  think  I  care  for  any 
just  now."  She  placed  the  box  on  a  chair  and 
pushed  it  away  from  her.  At  that  moment  she 
felt  that  any  of  it  would  have  choked  her. 


KATHERINE 79 

Katherine  turned  from  the  mirror  in  amaze- 
ment. "  You  don't  care  for  candy?  You're  not 
going  to  have  any?" 

"Not  now.  I  —  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  a 
headache.  I'll  go  in  here  by  the  window  while 
you  dress." 

She  wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  few  moments  — 
to  get  away  from  the  perfumed  boudoir  with  its 
luxurious  fittings,  from  the  warm  vivid  beauty 
of  Katherine's  bare  arms  and  neck,  from  the  in- 
timate glimpses  of  expensive  French  lingerie. 
Her  brain  was  dizzy  with  vague  thoughts  and 
doubts.  The  indefinable  impressions  that  had 
come  to  her  when  first  she  entered  the  apartment 
were  now  taking  form,  strengthened  by  each  suc- 
ceeding incident.  Every  act  of  Katherine's 
added  to  the  doubts. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  entered  the  office  of  a 
large  boarding  stable.  Katherine  explained  that 
she  never  telephoned  for  the  horse  to  be  brought 
around,  because  Queen  B.  was  too  nervous  to 
stand.  The  stable  was  only  a  few  blocks  from 
her  apartment,  and  she  usually  walked  around 
for  her. 

As  they  entered  the  office,  a  sporty-looking 
man  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  a 


80  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

cigar  in  his  mouth,  both  of  which  he  failed  to 
remove,  came  toward  them. 

"  Queen  B.,"  said  Katherine  briefly. 

The  man  went  to  the  door.  "  Bring  out  Mr. 
Walton's  mare !  "  he  yelled. 

Katherine  flushed  crimson,  but  she  made  no 
comment.  And  Margaret  was  glad  for  her  si- 
lence. It  seemed  to  her  then  that  any  explana- 
tion or  excuse  would  only  have  made  the  situa- 
tion more  painful. 


VII 

GROWING  UNREST 

BEFORE  he  spoke,  Margaret  knew  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  He  dropped  his  hat 
and  gloves  on  a  table  and  stood  for  several  mo- 
ments silently  turning  over  some  magazines. 
At  length,  without  looking  up,  he  said  slowly, 

"  She  knows.  She  heard  me  telephone  you 
last  night." 

Margaret  caught  her  breath,  clasping  tight  the 
back  of  a  chair.  She  made  no  attempt  to  ques- 
tion him.  After  a  little  he  went  on  in  the  same 
tense,  suppressed  voice. 

"  She's  been  growing  more  and  more  suspi- 
cious. For  days  I've  felt  that  she's  been  watch- 
ing every  move  I  made.  Last  night  she  came 
down  into  the  hall  —  and  heard  me  'phone  to 
you." 

"  Heard  you?  " 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "  Yes,  it  seems  she  was 
listening  at  the  library  door.  The  door  was 

81 


82  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

closed  and  I  thought  she  was  up  in  her  room, 
but  she  came  down  stairs  —  and  listened" 

"How  —  how  much  did  she  hear?" 

"  About  all  that  I  said." 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  she  burst  into  the  library  and  admitted 
that  she  had  heard  it  all.  That  she  listened  be- 
cause she  felt  she  had  a  right  to  listen.  Oh,  I 
can't  tell  you  the  rest  —  there  was  a  pitiable 
scene.  I  never  knew  before  that  she  was  a  hys- 
terical woman." 

"  What  did  you  say?    What  did  you  do?  " 

"  I  tried  to  soothe  her.  There  was  nothing  else 
I  could  do.  I  tried  to  make  her  think  she  was 
mistaken,  that  she'd  misunderstood  much  of  what 
I'd  said,  that  it  had  not  the  meaning  she  thought. 
Then  she  forced  me  to  promise  that  I  would 
never  see  you  again." 

"  And  you  promised?  " 

"  I  had  no  choice.  Of  course  I  knew  I  couldn't 
keep  the  promise  when  I  made  it.  But  she  was 
desperate.  I  had  to  pacify  her  in  every  way  I 
could." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  he 
added  fiercely: 


GROWING     UNREST 


"  I  hate  to  lie !  And  I'm  being  constantly 
forced  into  it  now." 

Margaret  gazed  up  at  Mm  in  wretched  silence. 
She  knew  how  he  shrank  from  untruths,  and  de- 
ceptions of  every  kind,  and  yet  it  was  because  of 
her  that  they  were  continually  forced  upon  him. 

He  threw  down  the  magazine  now  and  began 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  as  he  often  did 
in  tense  moments. 

"Last  night  shattered  a  hope  that  I've  been 
almost  unconsciously  cherishing  for  days.  I 
hadn't  yet  mentioned  it  to  you,  but  lately  I've 
been  hoping  that  after  all  it  might  be  possible 
for  me  some  time  to  tell  her  the  truth  —  rely- 
ing on  her  generosity  to  free  me.  But  I  know 
now  I  could  never  tell  her.  She  could  not  bear 
it.  Her  sense  of  control,  of  absolute  ownership 
of  me,  is  too  strong.  She  could  never  give  it 
up." 

He  came  over  beside  her  and  drew  her  gently 
toward  him. 

"  And  now  I'm  afraid  I  can't  see  you  as  often 
as  I  have  —  at  least  not  for  a  time.  She's  so 
fearfully  suspicious  just  now.  It's  for  your 
sake  too,  dear.  I  want  to  shield  you  all  I  can. 


84  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

As  yet  she  doesn't  know  your  name  —  and  she 
must  never  know  it." 

"  But  that  time  I  called  —  when  you  were  sick ! 
The  maid  gave  her  my  card?  " 

"  I  know ;  I  thought  of  that,  but  it  seems  she's 
forgotten  it  or  doesn't  connect  it  with  this." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  —  you  don't  think  she 
would  come  here  —  or  do  anything  like  that?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  now  what  she 
might  not  do.  I  didn't  think  she  would  listen  at  a 
door.  But  she  did  that.  I  suppose  a  jealous 
woman  will  do  anything." 

"  But  she's  not  a  vindictive  woman?  " 

"  She  never  has  been." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  Margaret  asked 
hesitatingly, 

"  And  now  —  we  will  have  to  give  up  our  drive 
and  dinner  Saturday?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  She's  insisting  that  I  take 
her  to  Garden  City  —  for  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"  A  week  or  ten  days !  And  —  you  —  are  go- 
ing?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  avoid  it.  We  always 
go  every  Spring  about  this  time,  but  this  year 
I've  been  putting  it  off  from  week  to  week.  Now 
she  insists  on  going  Saturday.  If  I  refuse,  it 


GROWING     UNREST 85 

will  only  confirm  her  suspicions.  But  I  shall 
not  stay  ten  days,  dear,  not  even  a  week.  To 
pacify  her  I'll  go  for  a  few  days  and  then  find 
some  excuse  to  come  back  —  some  business  ap- 
pointment." 

The  realisation  that  they  could  talk  so  calmly 
about  this,  came  to  Margaret  with  a  sudden  chill. 
A  few  months  ago  they  had  spoken  only  in  awed 
whispers  of  the  possibility  of  his  wife  ever 
"  knowing."  Now  that  she  did  know,  they  dis- 
cussed it  almost  as  a  matter-of-course.  Were 
they  growing  hardened  and  callous  to  it  all? 

She  did  not  express  this  thought  to  him,  she 
was  learning  to  keep  many  of  her  doubts  and 
fears  to  herself  —  lest  they  depress  him  more. 

When  he  was  leaving  he  saw  the  tears  in  her 
eyes.  He  came  back  and  took  both  her  hands  in 
his. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay,  dear?  Shall  I  risk 
it  and  refuse  to  go?  I  will  if  you  feel  that  I 
should." 

"  Oh,  no  —  no!  It  will  only  make  things  more 
difficult  if  you  don't  go.  After  all,  it's  only  for 
a  few  days.  I'm  afraid  we're  both  getting  very 
weak  if  we  can't  bear  such  a  short  separation." 

"I   know,"    he   answered   despairingly.    "It 


86  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

seems  that  I  haven't  the  strength  or  courage  that 
I  used  to  have.  I  just  want  you,  dear  —  I  want 
you  with  me  all  the  time,  and  I  don't  seem  to 
have  the  heart  to  struggle  with  conditions  that 
keep  us  separated." 

He  was  to  leave  at  four  o'clock  the  next  day. 
He  had  wanted  to  come  up  at  one  and  take  her 
to  luncheon,  yet  she  instinctively  felt  that  the 
luncheon  would  not  be  a  happy  one.  They  would 
both  be  depressed  and  it  would  only  make  it 
more  difficult  for  him  to  go.  In  many  ways  she 
felt  it  would  be  better  not  to  see  him  again  be- 
fore he  left.  So  she  told  him  to  call  her  up  at 
half  past  three  and  say  good-bye  over  the  'phone 
just  before  he  started. 

But  the  next  morning  she  was  restless  and 
unhappy.  After  all,  why  had  she  not  let  him 
take  her  to  luncheon?  It  could  make  her  no 
more  unhappy  than  she  already  was.  She 
wanted  to  see  him.  Just  to  see  and  talk  to  him 
for  a  few  moments  would  be  something. 

The  desire  to  telephone  him  to  come  for  her 
was  very  strong,  but  she  did  not  yield  to  it. 
Instead  she  determined  to  go  out,  to  do  some 
shopping,  anything  to  get  away  from  herself  and 
her  thoughts  until  it  was  too  late  for  luncheon. 


GROWING   UNREST  87 

She  would  stay  out  until  three  o'clock  —  until 
just  time  to  receive  his  good-bye  message. 

She  took  the  subway  to  one  of  the  big  shops 
and  wandered  around  aimlessly.  What  was  it 
that  she  wanted?  The  toilet  counter  was  before 
her  and  she  remembered  she  needed  some  denti- 
frice. 

All  the  clerks  were  busy.  While  she  waited, 
she  glanced  listlessly  over  the  lavish  display  of 
dainty  bottles  and  boxes,  the  innumerable  prep- 
arations for  toilet  and  bath.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  mingled  odours  of  soaps  and  perfumes. 
In  front  of  her  a  clerk  was  deftly  adding  up  a 
list  of  items  on  her  sales  book. 

"  Four  dollars  and  sixty -nine  cents.  You  wish 
these  charged?" 

"  Yes,  they're  to  be  charged  and  sent  special. 
I  want  them  by  three  o'clock.  You  have  the 
right  address?  —  Mrs.  Graham  Whitman,  187 

West Street,  You'll  not  fail  to  send  them 

special  ?  " 

She  was  standing  so  close  beside  Margaret  that 
her  dress  brushed  against  her  as  she  passed. 

For  a  moment  Margaret  stood  motionless,  then 
turned  blindly  and  left  the  shop.  A  fierce,  sick- 
ening jealousy  clutched  at  her  throat.  "  Mrs. 


88  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Graham  Whitman  "...  That  was  her  name,  she 
was  his  wife,  she  had  a  right  to  that  name !  And 
she  was  buying  these  things  to  take  on  this  trip 
with  him  —  with  him!  Margaret  lashed  herself 
with  the  torturing  thoughts  of  all  the  intimacy 
and  close  companionship  of  travelling,  of  life  at 
a  resort  hotel  where  he  would  be  with  her  con- 
stantly. 

"Mrs.  Graham  Whitman"  ...  It  was  only 
her  imagination,  of  course,  and  yet  it  seemed  as 
if  there  had  been  a  note  of  triumph,  of  the  ex- 
ultancy of  possession,  as  she  gave  the  name. 
"  Mrs.  Graham  Whitman  "...  Oh,  it  rang  with 
such  intimacy! 

When  she  reached  her  apartment  it  was  just 
two  o'clock.  Without  stopping  to  consider  the 
wisdom  of  her  impulse,  she  yielded  to  the  uncon- 
trollable desire  to  telephone  him,  to  ask  him 
to  come  to  her  before  he  left. 

He  came  at  once,  solicitous,  anxious,  loving, 
for  even  over  the  'phone  he  had  detected  a  sob 
in  her  voice.  She  threw  herself  into  his  arms 
with  an  incoherent  account  of  the  incident. 

"And  she  gave  your  name  —  your  name  — 
Mrs.  Graham  Whitman!  If  she  had  only  said 
Mrs.  Mary  Whitman,  or  even  Mrs.  G.  K.  Whit- 


GROWING     UNREST  89 

man,  but  Mrs.  Graham  Whitman !  Oh,  she  said 
it  as  though  she  was  a  part  of  you !  And  she  had 
the  things  charged  —  the  bill  will  go  to  you. 
Oh,  don't  misunderstand  me  —  you  know  I  don't 
mean  .  .  ." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  dear.  And  lately 
I've  had  the  same  feeling.  I've  wanted  to  put 
half  of  my  property  in  her  name  so  she  would 
have  her  own  income.  But  she's  fought  against 
it.  She's  always  said  she  loved  to  feel  that  I 
was  paying  for  all  her  personal  needs,  that  she 
never  wanted  an  income  of  her  own,  that  it  was 
my  money  she  wanted  to  feel  that  she  was  spend- 
ing—  not  hers.  She's  always  been  like  that  — 
always  used  every  incident,  every  detail  of  life, 
to  make  our  relationship  seem  more  intimate  and 
binding." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  it  happened,"  she  faltered. 
"I'm  so  sorry  I  met  her.  It's  only  increased  a 
feeling  that's  been  growing  upon  me  lately.  The 
sympathy  and  consideration  I  used  to  have  for 
her  has  all  gone,  and  now  —  now  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,  dear,"  he  mused  sadly,  "  I  know." 


VIII 
A  FALSE  POSITION 

ND  you'll  be  gone  a  week?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will  take  a  full  week." 

"  It  seems  hard  that  you  must  go  now.  You've 
had  to  be  away  so  much  lately,  and  I  feel  so  lost 
—  so  desolate  when  you're  gone.  Even  when 
I  can't  see  you  often,  just  to  know  that  you're  in 
the  city  seems  to  help.  I  never  feel  quite  so  un- 
happy when  I  know  you're  here." 

"  I  would  postpone  this  if  I  could,  Margaret. 
But  it's  that  Carrington  case  I  told  you  about. 
If  I'd  known  it  in  time,  I'd  have  tried  to  arrange 
for  us  to  dine  together  this  evening." 

"  And  we  can't?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  The  first  of  the  week  I  asked 
Mr.  Barton  to  dine  with  me.  He's  one  of  the 
other  attorneys  on  the  case.  I  had  intended  to 
have  him  at  the  house,  but  two  of  the  servants 
are  sick  and  Mrs.  Whitman  has  asked  me  to  take 
him  to  a  hotel.  But  somehow  I  resent  the 

90 


A     FALSE     POSITION  91 

thought  of  dining  out  with  any  one  but  you  to- 
night," 

"And  she —  will  be  with  you?"  jealously. 

"  No ;  her  sister  is  in  town  to-day." 

Margaret's  face  lit  up  suddenly ;  with  an  eager 
exclamation  she  caught  his  arm. 

"  Then  —  then  —  why  — " 

"  What,  dear?  "  as  she  hesitated. 

"No  —  no,  I  think  of  such  wild  things.  Of 
course  it  would  be  impossible." 

"  What  would?    What  are  you  thinking  of?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  see  now  it  wouldn't  do.  But 
just  for  the  moment  it  flashed  over  me  that  I 
might  go  to  the  same  place  fon  dinner,  and  you 
could  come  over  to  my  table  and  be  with  me  for 
a  few  minutes.  You  could  tell  Mr.  Barton  that 
I  was  a  former  client  whom  you  hadn't  seen  for 
some  time." 

"  Would  you  do  that,  Margaret?  "  there  was  an 
eager  note  in  his  voice. 

"What  restaurant  are  you  going  to?" 

"  It  makes  no  difference  —  anywhere  that  you 
suggest." 

"  If  I  should  go,  I'd  rather  it  would  be  the 

Hotel where  I  stopped  when  I  first  came  to 

the  city.  I  wouldn't  mind  dining  there  alone." 


92  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  It  shall  be  the  Hotel !  That's  an  excel- 
lent place  to  dine.  And  just  to  know  you're  there 

—  to  look  up  now  and  then  and  see  you  across 
the  room,  will  be  a  great  deal."    He  smiled  ten- 
derly.   "  You're  the  dearest  and  most  resource- 
ful little  woman  in  the  world." 

She  flushed.  "  Sometimes  I'm  afraid  you'll 
think  me  too  resourceful.  It  seems  to  me  I'm 
always  so  full  of  plans  and  schemes.  I  suppose 
it's  part  of  my  story-writing  instinct." 

He  was  silent. 

"  You  do  think  that — you  do  feel  that  I'm  too 

—  resourceful?"  with  the  hope  that  he  would 
deny  it. 

"Not  quite  that.  I  hardly  know  how  to  ex- 
press it.  I  think  it's  partly  that  a  man  likes  to 
feel  a  woman's  dependence  upon  him.  But  I 
always  know  that  you  could  out- wit  and  out-plan 
me  in  any  emergency.  Another  thing  I  always 
feel  so  helpless  before  is  your  acting.  Sometimes 
I  feel — "  He  stopped  with  a  sense  of  his  in- 
ability to  make  words  convey  what  he  wished. 

Margaret  tried  in  vain  to  keep  down  the  quick 
resentment  which  she  knew  was  wholly  unreason- 
able. The  colour  flamed  in  her  cheeks. 


A     FALSE     POSITION  93 

"Don't,  dear,  don't  feel  hurt.  I  shouldn't 
have  said  that." 

"  If  that  is  what  you  feel,  you  might  as  well 
say  it,"  she  interrupted  coldly. 

There  was  a  silence  of  several  moments,  then 
with  one  of  her  quick,  generous  impulses  she 
slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"  You  are  right.  I  know  there  are  times  when 
I  do  act.  I  can't  help  it.  It  seems  part  of  my 
nature.  But  you  can  always  feel  sure  of  the 
sincerity  of  my  love  for  you.  You  do  feel  that 
—  don't  you?" 

"  You  know  I  do,"  he  answered  gently. 

It  was  just  seven  when  Margaret  stepped  from 
a  cab  in  front  of  the  Hotel .  In  the  inter- 
vening two  hours,  after  he  had  gone,  she  had  al- 
ternately decided  to  come  and  not  to  come.  But 
her  desire  to  see  and  be  near  him  again  before  he 
left  the  city,  and  a  certain  spirit  of  adventure 
(of  which  she  was  entirely  conscious)  overruled 
the  reluctance  and  timidity  she  could  not  help 
but  feel. 

As  she  passed  through  the  brilliantly-lighted 
halls  to  the  dining  room,  her  heart  beat  fast  and 
the  colour  rushed  to  her  face.  He  had  said  they 


94  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

would  be  on  the  right  hand  side  near  the  wall. 
At  the  entrance  she  gave  one  swift  glance  along 
the  tables  to  the  right.  It  seemed  that  almost 
instantly  her  eyes  met  his,  and  then,  in  nervous 
confusion,  before  he  had  time  to  show  any  sign 
of  recognition,  she  hastily  averted  her  gaze. 

The  head  waiter  came  up  and  led  her  toward 
the  other  side  of  the  room.  She  followed  him 
only  part  of  the  way,  then  motioned  her  prefer- 
ence to  a  table  from  which  there  was  an  unob- 
structed view  of  where  they  were  sitting. 

She  picked  up  the  menu  and  kept  her  head 
bowed  over  it.  She  was  intently  conscious  that 
he  was  waiting  for  her  to  look  up  that  he  might 
make  some  formal  sign  of  greeting.  At  length, 
with  a  still  deepening  colour,  she  met  his  eyes 
again  and  returned  his  bow  and  smile. 

Still  painfully  self-conscious  and  confused, 
even  after  she  had  given  her  order,  she  kept 
her  gaze  fixed  on  the  menu.  Would  he  come  over 
now,  or  wait  until  they  were  leaving? 

It  was  not  until  the  oysters  were  served  that 
she  had  the  courage  to  glance  toward  him  again. 
This  time  he  did  not  see  her;  he  was  talking  to 
Mr.  Barton.  Then  she  discovered  that  the  mir- 
ror which  lined  the  wall  beside  her  reflected  per- 


A     FALSE     POSITION  95 

fectly  the  table  at  which  he  sat.  She  could 
watch  his  every  movement  unobserved !  Now  he 
was  leaning  his  arm  on  the  table  with  a  character- 
istic grace  she  so  loved;  now  he  was  smiling 
slightly  in  response  to  some  remark  by  Mr.  Bar- 
ton. With  a  thrill  of  pride  she  realised  how  dis- 
tinguished he  looked,  how  from  the  very  strength 
of  his  personality  he  seemed  to  stand  out  from  the 
men  about  him. 

When  a  little  later  she  saw  him  coming  toward 
her,  her  heart  bounded  to  her  throat.  He  held 
out  his  hand  with  a  few  formal  words,  then  he 
leaned  nearer  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  It  makes  me  wretched  to  see  you  over  here 
alone.  Let  me  bring  Mr.  Barton  over  and  have 
the  rest  of  our  dinner  served  .here.  It'll  be  all 
right.  I  can  easily  say  you  are  a  client — it  will 
seem  quite  natural." 

"  No  —  no,  I  won't  know  what  to  say !  I  shall 
feel  so  awkward  and  self-conscious." 

"  You  only  feel  that  now.  You'll  be  perfectly 
at  ease  when  we're  over  here  —  I'm  sure  you 
will ! " 

He  was  leaving,  in  spite  of  her  protests ;  then 
he  turned  back  and  murmured  smilingly : 

"  Only  you  mustn't  forget  and  call  me  '  dear.'  " 


96  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Her  eyes  smiled  back  at  him.  "  I  think  I  can 
remember  —  if  you  can." 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  introducing  Mr. 
Barton  to  her.  The  slight  flurry  of  the  waiter  in 
arranging  a  third  seat  at  her  small  two-seated 
table  helped  to  break  any  awkwardness  of  the 
first  few  moments.  Then  she  was  surprised  to 
find  that  she  was  not  as  self-conscious  as  she  had 
been  alone.  She  felt  a  sudden  sureness  of  her- 
self. Just  to  feel  him  beside  her,  had  given  her 
confidence.  The  conversation  flowed  easily  along 
conventional  channels. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  dinner,  when  the 
coffee  and  liqueurs  were  served,  that  Mr.  Barton 
suddenly  raised  his  glass  with  the  remark, 

"We  must  drink  to  the  absent  one  —  Mrs. 
Whitman." 

It  was  so  unexpected,  so  wholly  unforeseen  .  .  . 

Margaret  felt  her  glass  touch  her  lips.  What 
would  he  say?  What  could  he  say?  The  silence 
was  too  long  .  .  .  Mr.  Barton  would  notice  ... 
And  then  he  said  quietly, 

"  That  was  a  very  thoughtful  toast." 

"It  would  have  completed  the  table  to  have 
had  Mrs.  Whitman  with  us  this  evening,"  Mr. 
Barton  added  courteously. 


A     FALSE     POSITION  97 

"  Mrs.  Whitman's  mother  is  in  town  and  they 
usually  prefer  to  dine  at  home,"  in  the  same  quiet 
voice. 

And  then  the  conversation  drifted  on  again. 
Margaret  realised  that  he  was  controlling  it  now, 
keeping  it  in  easy  channels,  making  it  neces- 
sary for  her  to  reply  only  in  monosyllables.  He 
felt  the  wretchedness  of  the  incident  and  was 
doing  what  he  could  to  help  her.  But  he  could 
not  take  away  the  sense  of  poignant  humilia- 
tion. She  had  never  heard  "Mrs.  Whitman" 
referred  to  by  any  one  else.  It  seemed  to  force 
upon  her  a  stinging  realisation  of  her  position. 

She  was  passionately  glad  when  the  dinner 
was  over.  Just  to  get  away  —  to  be  alone! 
When  he  put  her  into  the  cab  he  said  miserably, 

"It  was  all  my  fault.  I  shouldn't  have 
brought  him  over.  I  see  that  now.  It  was  a 
false,  strained  position  to  place  you  in.  I  might 
have  known  that  something  like  that  would  hap- 
pen." 

"  No  —  no,"  she  murmured,  "  it  was  my  fault 
too  —  I  shouldn't  have  come  —  I  shouldn't  have 
suggested  it." 

"  If  I  could  only  go  home  with  you,  I  could 
keep  away  thoughts  that  I  know  you  will  have 


98  THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

alone.  But  don't,  dear;  try  not  to  think  of  it. 
Try  not  to  think  of  anything  but  that  I  love  you 
very  dearly,  and  that  nothing  like  this  will  ever 
occur  again  —  I  will  shield  you  too  carefully." 
But  there  were  many  things  she  could  not  help 
but  think  of,  and  her  face  burned  against  her 
pillow  until  far  into  the  night. 


IX 
COMPLICATIONS 

*  *  T   DIDN'T  know  you  had  a  new  secretary." 

JL  "A  new  secretary?  Why,  I  haven't. 
What  made  you  think  that?  " 

"  This  afternoon  I  telephoned  to  your  office  and 
a  woman  answered.  She  said  you  were  out  but 
that  she  was  your  secretary,  and  would  I  not 
leave  my  name  and  message." 

"What  time  was  that?  " 

"  About  three  o'clock." 

"  Did  you  leave  any  message?  " 

"  No,  I  just  said  for  you  to  call  up  Miss  Warner 
when  you  came  in." 

"  Did  she  ask  for  your  'phone  number?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  gave  it?  "  tensely. 

"  Yes ;  I  said  you  knew  it,  but  she  insisted  so 
I  repeated  it.  Why,  dear,  what's  the  matter? 
What  makes  you  look  like  that?" 

"  That  was  —  Mrs.  Whitman," 

99 


100         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"Oh,  no — no!    It  couldn't  have  been." 

"She  was  there  between  three  and  four.  I 
came  in  a  little  after  four  and  Matthews  said 
she'd  just  gone." 

"And  I  gave  her  my  name  and  number!" 
brokenly. 

"You've  only  hastened  things  by  perhaps  a 
few  days.  For  weeks  she's  been  determined  to 
find  out  who  you  are.  I  knew  she'd  succeed 
sooner  or  later  —  it  had  to  come." 

"  But  how  could  she  claim  to  be  your  secretary 
when  Mr.  Matthews  was  there?  " 

"  It  seems  that  she  sent  Matthews  out  on  some 
trivial  errand.  When  I  learned  that,  I  felt  she 
had  done  it  purposely,  that  she  had  come  down 
with  the  intention  of  going  through  my  desk. 
She  knew  I  would  be  at  a  committee  meeting  this 
afternoon." 

"Would  she  do  that?  Would  she  go  through 
your  private  papers?  " 

"  She  would  never  have  done  it  before.  But  I 
think  now  in  her  desperate  jealousy  she  would  do 
almost  anything.  But  your  letters  are  safe. 
While  I  keep  them  in  my  desk,  they  are  in  a 
drawer  for  which  I  had  a  special  lock  made. 
That  you  should  'phone  while  she  was  there  and 


COMPLICATIONS  101 

Matthews  out  was,  of  course,  an  accident  of  which 
she  was  quick  to  take  advantage.  And  now  that 
she  knows  your  telephone  number  she  can  easily 
get  the  address  from  Central." 

"But  will  that  prove  anything?  You  have 
many  women  clients." 

"  Yes,  but  she  has  only  to  come  here  and  en- 
quire of  the  clerk  to  learn  that  I've  been  calling 
here  for  months.  If  she  can't  get  the  informa- 
tion from  Mm,  it  wouldn't  be  difficult  to  bribe  the 
bell  boys.  There're  a  dozen  ways  she  can  find 
out  now." 

"Would  she  come  here  and  "bribe  the  'bell 
loys?" 

He  flushed  slightly  at  the  note  of  scorn  in  her 
voice. 

"  Perhaps  not  herself.  But  there  are  detec- 
tive agencies  all  over  the  city  that  do  just  that 
kind  of  work." 

"  A  detective?    And  you  think  .  .  ." 

For  several  moments  he  stood  moodily  study- 
ing a  design  in  the  rug.  Then  he  said  slowly, 

"We  must  do  everything  we  can  to  avoid  a 
crisis.  I'm  in  no  position  either  to  tell  her  the 
truth  or  leave  her  now.  If  I  had  done  it  six 
months  ago,  it  would  not  have  been  quite  so 


102         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

horrible  —  but  now  —  now  .  .  ."  He  turned 
quickly  and  walked  toward  the  window. 

Margaret  rose  and  went  over  beside  him. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  You're  keeping  something 
from  me  —  I  have  felt  it  for  weeks.  Tell  me  what 
it  is.  Tell  me,  dear,  and  let  me  help  you." 

"No,  you  have  enough  to  bear.  You  can  do 
nothing,  and  it  will  only  make  it  harder  for  you." 

"  Tell  me  —  you  must  tell  me !  You  make  me 
feel  that  you're  shutting  me  out  of  your  life,  of 
the  little  part  of  your  life  that  I  can  share." 

"  Not  this  —  I  can't  tell  you  this.  I  must  fight 
it  out  alone." 

"Don't  you  trust  me?  Don't  you  trust  me, 
Graham?  "  She  was  sobbing  now.  "  I  can  bear 
anything  but  the  feeling  that  you  don't  trust 
me  —  that  you  are  drawing  away  from  me." 

"  You  know  it's  not  that.  I  had  only  hoped  to 
spare  you  pain  and  worry — but  if  you  put  it  that 
way,  I  will  tell  you,  of  course." 

He  hesitated  and  then  said  slowly, 

"  Whatever  happens  I  could  not  leave  her  now, 
for  she  would  be  penniless.  In  the  last  six 
months  I  have  lost  about  fifty  thousand  dollars 
—  practically  everything  I  have." 

In  an  instant  she  was  clinging  to  him,  murmur- 


COMPLICATIONS  103 

ing  words  of  tenderest  love  and  comfort,  covering 
his  eyes  and  forehead  with  kisses.  All  the 
mother  love,  that  is  a  part  of  every  woman,  was 
aroused  in  her  now.  He  was  in  trouble  —  in 
sore  distress.  He  needed  her  love  and  sympathy 
as  he  had  never  needed  it  before,  and  she  gave 
it  to  him  without  reservation.  The  shyness  she 
usually  felt  in  any  voluntary  caress  was  not 
with  her  now.  She  was  conscious  only  of  a 
great  yearning  to  help  him,  to  make  him  forget 
all  worry  and  trouble  in  the  tenderness  of  her 
love. 

"  I  shall  never  forget,  Margaret,  that  your 
first  instinct  was  to  comfort  me,  not  to  question 
or  blame,  but  just  to  comfort.  Do  you  know 
you  haven't  yet  asked  me  how  it  happened?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  thought  of  that." 

"I  lost  it  in  stocks  —  in  speculating — some- 
thing I  haven't  done  for  years.  I  felt  that  if  we 
should  ever  begin  life  together,  I  would  not  want 
it  to  be  on  the  money  I  had  earned  while  I  was 
with  her.  That  if  ever  I  left  her,  I  should  want 
to  give  her  everything  I  had  made  during  the 
years  we'd  been  married. 

"And  for  our  possible  future  together  I 
opened  an  entirely  new  account  at  the  Metropoli- 


104         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

tan  Bank,  hoping  to  build  it  up  by  extra  work 
outside  my  regular  practice.  But  I  grew  im- 
patient. I  wanted  to  increase  it  more  rapidly, 
so  I  made  several  ventures  in  stocks.  That  was 
just  before  the  panic  in  September.  When  that 
came  on  I  lost  heavily.  To  retrench  my  losses 
I  went  in  still  deeper.  I  was  desperate.  I  felt 
that  in  one  sense  it  was  her  money  I  had  lost, 
and  I  must  make  it  back.  Then  I  lost  again  and 
still  again.  Oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it—" 

"  Listen,  dear.  I  have  some  money,  not  very 
much  —  but  a  few  thousands.  Let  me  — " 

He  put  her  from  him  roughly.  "  Do  you  think 
I  would  touch  your  money?  " 

"  But  I  want  to  help  you.  It  would  make 
me  happier  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

"  You  can  help  me,  but  not  in  that  way.  You 
can  help  by  being  patient  and  cheerful.  I  won't 
be  able  to  be  with  you  as  often  as  I  have  been  — 
we  will  have  to  give  up  a  great  deal.  For  I  must 
work  —  I  must  give  more  time  to  my  work  now 
than  I've  ever  given  before.  There  is  no  way  to 
get  back  this  money  but  through  my  practice." 

"And  she  does  not  know  of  —  this  loss?" 

"  No,  and  I  must  keep  it  from  her.  She  would 
worry  herself  ill  if  she  knew." 


COMPLICATIONS  105 

It  came  to  Margaret  with  a  sickening  sense  of 
oppression  that  she  had  been  the  cause  of  all 
this.  Had  it  not  been  for  her,  for  his  hope  of 
their  future  together,  he  would  not  have  felt 
the  need  of  making  these  investments,  and  would 
not  now  be  facing  these  difficulties. 

The  loss  of  his  entire  fortune,  the  work  of 
many  years  —  aside  from  his  anxiety  about  his 
wife  —  what  would  it  mean  to  him?  What  ef- 
fect would  it  have  on  his  life?  Even  though  he 
did  not  now,  might  he  not  some  day  blame  her 
for  the  part,  however  innocent,  she  had  had  in  it 
all? 

The  long  silence  that  had  fallen  upon  them 
was  broken  by  a  clock  striking  the  half  hour. 

"  Half  past  six !  I  must  go,  dear.  I  mustn't 
be  late  for  dinner  to-night.  It  would  only  make 
matters  worse." 

After  he  had  gone,  she  sat  by  the  window 
brooding  over  the  hoplessness  of  it  all.  How 
would  it  end?  Could  they  ever  extricate  them- 
selves from  the  obstacles  that  were  thickening 
around  them? 

What  would  be  the  result  of  the  loss  of  this 
money?  She  had  a  heart-sick  presentiment  that 
it  would  mean  a  great  deal,  that  while  he  was 


106         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

in  no  way  a  mercenary  man,  the  loss  of  his  for- 
tune would  tend  to  humiliate  him,  to  decrease 
his  self-confidence  and  assurance. 

The  next  morning  she  received  this  note : 

Had  a  serious  time  when  I  reached  home  last  night. 
She  had  already  found  out  your  address  and  knew  that  I 
had  been  calling  there  constantly.  Threatened  to  kill  her- 
self if  I  ever  saw  you  again.  This  morning  she  is  still 
hysterical.  I  must  do  what  I  can  to  pacify  her.  It  will  be 
impossible  for  me  to  see  you  for  several  days.  Try  to  be 
brave  and  patient ;  that  will  help  me  more  than  anything  else 
—  and  I  need  help  now. 

After  the  first  shock  and  distress  of  the  letter, 
a  glow  of  love  and  self-sacrifice  swept  over  her. 
She  would  be  brave  and  patient.  She  would 
make  no  demands  on  him  now. 

She  answered  the  note  at  once,  saying  that  all 
her  love  and  sympathy  went  out  to  him,  that 
she  knew  he  had  much  to  contend  with  now, 
and  for  him  not  to  be  worried  or  distressed  about 
her  in  any  way.  Even  if  she  could  not  see  him 
for  several  days  she  would  try  to  be  content  and 
cheerful.  And  if  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  send 
her  messages,  she  would  not  misunderstand  his 
silence.  She  would  do  all  she  could  to  help  him 
in  this  way,  as  she  knew  of  no  other;  and  above 
everything  else  she  wanted  to  help  him. 


COMPLICATIONS  107 

No  further  message  came  that  day.  The  next 
morning  there  was  still  no  word.  He  might  at 
least  have  telephoned!  She  tried  in  vain  to 
crush  down  the  sense  of  hurt  and  neglect.  It 
was  not  until  three  days  later  that  he  tele- 
phoned. He  was  at  once  conscious  of  the  cold- 
ness and  formality  in  her  voice. 

"  You  wrote  me  you  would  not  misunderstand 
my  silence." 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  have?  " 

"Your  voice.  You  are  hurt  and  indignant 
because  I  took  you  at  your  word.'* 

"  Not  at  all,"  still  coldly. 

u  Margaret,  do  you  think  you  are  being  fair? 
You  promised  to  help  me  —  to  try  to  be  brave 
and  cheerful.  I  am  surrounded  with  all  kinds 
of  difficulties,  and  now  you're  going  to  make 
things  harder  by  making  me  feel  that  I've  of- 
fended you.  Shall  I  risk  everything  and  come 
to  see  you  this  afternoon?  " 

"  Oh,  no  —  no,  not  if  it  will  make  things  more 
difficult." 

"  It  will.  But  rather  than  have  you  feel  hurt 
and  neglected  —  I  will  come." 

"No,  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that.  I  know 
you  should  not  take  any  risks  now.  And  since 


108         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

you've  telephoned,  I  will  be  more  content.  It 
was  only  because  I  didn't  hear  from  you  at  all 
that  I  felt  hurt."  There  was  a  tremulous  note 
in  her  voice  now. 

"  Poor  little  girl !  It's  been  hard,  I  know. 
It  would  help  us  both,  I  think,  if  I  could  see  you 
for  a  few  moments.  It  would  be  perfectly  safe 
if  we  could  meet  somewhere  —  just  so  I  do  not 
come  to  your  hotel.  Would  you  feel  hurt  if  I 
should  ask  you  to  do  that  —  to  meet  me  some- 
where for  a  few  moments?  " 

"  Why  should  I  feel  hurt?  " 

"You're  so  sensitive  —  I'm  always  afraid  of 
hurting  you.  I  thought  you  might  feel  humil- 
iated if  I  asked  you  to  meet  me  at  a  subway  sta- 
tion." 

"  I  will  meet  you  anywhere  —  I  think  you 
ought  to  know  that." 

"Will  you?"  she  felt  the  glad  note  in  his 
voice.  "Will  you  come  at  once  —  say  in  about 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  —  to  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral subway?  I'll  be  waiting  for  you  there  — 
the  down-town  side." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver.  In  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  —  she  was  to  see  him  in  three-quarters 
of  an  hour !  She  slipped  into  a  street  suit  with 


COMPLICATIONS  109 

eager  happiness.  The  slight  aversion  she  had 
always  had  for  the  subway  was  now  changed  to 
a  warm  liking  and  gratitude  as  it  whirled  her 
toward  him. 

At  the  Grand  Central  he  was  there  on  the  plat- 
form, waiting  to  help  her  off.  For  a  second  he 
held  both  her  hands. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  come,  Margaret." 

"  And  you  thought  I  would  feel  humiliated  to 
meet  you  in  this  way?  " 

"  I  didn't  know.  You  are  sensitive  about  so 
many  things." 

"  But  I'd  do  anything  to  see  you.  Oh,  I've 
wanted  to  see  you  so !  "  Her  lips  trembled. 

"  Margaret !  My  poor  darling,"  he  murmured 
as  he  bent  toward  her. 

"What  has  happened  —  tell  me!  Oh,  I've 
been  so  worried." 

"I  can't  talk  about  it  —  don't  ask  me,  Mar- 
garet. It  has  all  been  so  wretched." 

"Oh,  you  must  tell  me  —  you  must!  It  will 
worry  me  sick  if  you  don't  —  I've  been  imagining 
all  kinds  of  dreadful  things." 

It  was  several  moments  before  he  spoke,  and 
then  she  felt  it  was  with  an  effort. 

"  It  seems  that  day  she  was  down  at  the  office 


110         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

she  found  out  more  than  I  thought.  The  drawer 
in  which  I  keep  your  letters,  the  one  with  the 
special  lock,  she  of  course  could  not  open.  But 
in  the  drawer  underneath  she  found  a  letter  that 
in  some  way  had  slipped  down  from  the  locked 
drawer.  I  suppose  in  opening  and  closing  the 
drawer  this  letter  got  caught  in  the  back  and  fell 
through." 

"  One  of  my  letters?  "  breathlessly. 

"No.  The  strange  part  of  it  is  that  it  was 
one  of  mine ! " 

"One  of  yours?" 

"  Yes,  an  unfinished  one.  I  remember  one  day 
while  I  was  writing  you,  some  one  came  in,  and 
I  locked  the  letter  in  the  drawer  with  yours.  It 
was  that  unfinished  note  that  fell  through  into 
the  drawrer  below." 

"  What  was  it?     What  had  you  written ?  " 

"  It  was  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  things 
she  could  have  found.  It  was  written  the  time 
you  were  so  ill,  and  was  full  of  anxiety  and  solici- 
tude about  your  health,  and  regret  that  I  couldn't 
be  with  you  constantly.  There  was  no  name  or 
address,  so  I  tried  to  make  her  believe  that  it 
was  merely  a  letter  I  copied,  a  letter  given  me  by 
a  client  as  part  of  the  testimony  in  a  divorce  case. 


COMPLICATIONS  111 

She  knows  I  never  handle  cases  of  that  kind,  but 
for  the  sake  of  her  pride  she  is  trying  to  make  a 
pretence  at  believing  it." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  it  happened !  But  why  did 
she  do  that  —  why  did  she  go  through  your  desk? 
Doesn't  she  feel  that  it  was  a  most  contempt  — 
that  it  was  not  an  honourable  thing  to  do?  " 

"Yes,  she  feels  that  keenly.  She  says  she 
knows  it  was  a  contemptible  thing;  her  only  jus- 
tification is  the  same  as  when  she  listened  at  the 
'phone  —  that  I  drove  her  to  it,  that  she  felt  she 
must  know  the  truth.  And  that  same  afternoon 
she  found  your  address  and  learned  how  often 
I'd  been  calling  there.  She  even  knew  I  was 
there  that  very  afternoon." 

"  How  could  she  know  that?  " 

"  She  wouldn't  give  me  the  particulars.  But 
I  suppose  having  your  'phone  number  she  got  the 
address  from  Information  and  then  sent  a  de- 
tective to  the  hotel.  I  may  even  have  been  there 
when  he  came." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful !  It  cheapens  it  all  so. 
It  makes  me  feel  —  Oh,  it's  all  so  humiliating !  " 

"I  know  — I  feel  that  too.  Yesterday  it 
seemed  almost  unbearable.  That  is  one  reason 
I  did  not  want  to  tell  you.  But  you  see  now 


112         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

how  imperative  it  is  that  I  do  not  come  to  the 
hotel.  It  is  best  not  even  to  write  or  telephone 
you  there  unless  it's  absolutely  necessary.  It's 
for  your  sake,  dear  —  to  shield  you.  It  almost 
maddens  me  when  I  think  how  little  protection 
I  can  give  you  —  and  it  must  be  only  negative.  I 
can  shield  you  only  by  remaining  away  from 
you." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I'm  not  to  see  you  or  hear 
from  you  at  all  ?  "  despairingly. 

"  Only  for  a  few  days.  I  know  that  neither 
of  us  could  stand  that  long,  but  just  until  I  have 
time  to  arrange  things.  I  thought  of  getting  a 
lock  post-office  box  for  each  of  us;  in  that  way 
our  mail  at  least  would  be  safe." 

"It  isn't  safe  now?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  may  be,  but  for  your  sake 
I  don't  want  to  take  any  risks." 

An  express  train  thundered  by,  almost  drown- 
ing his  voice. 

"  I  mustn't  keep  you  standing  here.  Come  up 
and  let  me  get  a  taxi  to  take  you  home. 
I  don't  like  to  think  of  your  going  back  alone  on 
the  subway ;  it'll  be  crowded  now." 

As  he  led  her  up  the  steps  and  across  the  street 


COMPLICATIONS  113 

toward  a  line  of  cabs,  she  was  filled  with  a  sick 
disappointment.  She  had  thought  he  would  take 
her  to  some  restaurant  —  a  cafe  —  some  place 
where  they  could  be  together  for  a  little  while. 
Was  she  only  to  see  him  for  these  few  moments? 
She  wanted  to  speak  of  it,  to  make  some  sugges- 
tion, but  her  pride  kept  her  silent.  Perhaps  he 
had  read  something  of  her  thoughts,  for  as  he  put 
her  in  a  cab  he  said  longingly, 

"  If  I  could  only  keep  you  with  me  for  a  while 
longer  —  but  I  promised  to  be  home  at  five." 

There  was  a  conscious  pause,  and  then  he  asked 
hesitatingly, 

"  Margaret,  would  you  come  here  again  at  the 
same  time  day  after  to-morrow?  You  know  how 
I  hate  to  ask  this  of  you,  but  it's  the  only  way  I 
can  safely  see  you  now." 

"  I'll  come  gladly,  dear.  I  haven't  the  feeling 
about  it  that  you  seem  to  think.  I  would  have, 
of  course,  under  any  other  circumstances.  But 
since  I  know  it's  impossible  now  for  you  to  come 
to  me,  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  be  with 
you  —  if  only  for  a  few  moments." 

"Margaret!"  His  lingering  hand  clasp  was 
like  a  caress. 


114         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

As  the  taxi  moved  off  and  left  him  standing 
there,  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  a  rush  of  love, 
and  of  infinite  pity  for  all  the  difficulties  that, 
because  of  her,  were  now  surrounding  him. 


DESPONDENCY 

THE  next  few  weeks  were  filled  with  clan- 
destine meetings,  meetings  at  subway  and 
elevated  stations,  at  banks  and  drug  stores,  stolen 
moments  of  evasion  and  subterfuge  that  hurt 
them  both,  that  put  a  sense  of  degradation  upon 
their  love  that  had  never  been  there  before. 

She  could  no  longer  protest  that  she  did  not 
feel  the  humiliation  of  it  all.  She  felt  it  keenly, 
but  always  the  longing  to  see  him  was  stronger 
than  everything  else. 

She  watched  with  dread  his  growing  moodiness 
and  depression.  Their  old  hours  of  happiness 
and  light-heartedness  were  entirely  gone.  They 
were  weighted  down  now  by  conditions  that 
seemed  daily  to  grow  more  unbearable. 

Margaret's  own  suffering  had  hardened  her  to 
the  sufferings  of  his  wife.  Since  the  incident  of 
the  telephone  she  realised  how  radically  her  feel- 
ings had  changed.  Where  before  she  had  felt 

115 


116         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

both  sympathy  and  consideration,  she  now  felt 
only  bitter  antagonism.  And  more  and  more  fre- 
quently this  bitterness  and  jealousy  found  expres- 
sion in  words. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  depths  of  misery  and 
abasement  had  been  reached  when  one  day  she 
recklessly  taunted  him  with  lack  of  courage  —  of 
the  courage  of  his  love  —  saying  that  if  he  really 
loved  her  he  would  have  long  ago  given  up  every- 
thing for  her  and  saved  them  both  all  this  an- 
guish. And  he  answered  that  love  should  not 
mean  cruelty  and  wreckage,  that  even  for  her  he 
could  not  forget  entirely  what  he  owed  that  poor 
woman  who  was  his  wife.  He  had  wronged  her 
enough. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  expressed  in  any 
way  the  wish  that  he  would  leave  his  wife.  Im- 
mediately she  tried  to  recall  the  words,  saying 
that  she  did  not  mean  that,  that  she  was  nervous 
and  overwrought. 

"  I  know,"  he  said  sadly.  "  I  don't  blame  you. 
If  you've  grown  bitter  and  resentful  toward  her, 
it  is  my  fault.  For  months  I've  talked  of  her, 
have  told  you  all  her  faults  and  weaknesses.  I'm 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  all  that  I've  said.  We've 


DESPONDENCY  117 

come  to  think  of  her  as  our  enemy.  That  is  fatal ; 
we  mustn't  encourage  that  feeling." 

But  unconsciously,  or  because  they  could  not 
help  it,  the  feeling  was  encouraged.  His  resolve 
never  again  to  speak  of  his  wife  in  any  way  that 
would  increase  their  hostility  toward  her  was 
broken  only  a  few  days  later,  when  they  met  for 
one  of  their  stolen  half  hours.  Margaret  had 
come  to  know  at  a  glance  when  anything  had  hap- 
pened ;  but  she  had  also  learned  never  to  try  to 
force  his  confidence. 

At  first  he  talked  only  of  generalities,  trying  to 
keep  from  a  subject  that  he  knew  was  dangerous 
for  them  both.  But  at  length  he  broke  out  in  un- 
controlled bitterness. 

"  I  can't  stand  this  much  longer.  All  day  yes- 
terday I  was  hounded  —  literally  hounded.  And 
I  suppose  when  I  go  home  this  evening  it  will  be 
the  same  thing." 

She  was  silent.  She  had  found  that  when  he 
was  in  these  moods  any  comments  or  questions 
had  only  a  tendency  to  make  him  draw  back 
within  himself.  They  seemed  to  bring  him  to 
a  consciousness  of  what  he  was  saying,  and  had 
the  effect  of  checking  any  confidences  of  this  kind. 


118         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"Yesterday  she  wanted  me  to  take  her  to 
Bronxville  to  her  sister's.  I  shrank  from  a  Sun- 
day of  family  gossip  just  now,  so  I  made  some 
excuse.  Then  she  wanted  to  go  to  Garden  City 
or  to  half  a  dozen  other  places  she  suggested. 
Since  I  couldn't  be  with  you,  I  wanted  a  quiet 
day  alone  in  my  study.  But  she  insisted  that  I 
should  take  her  somewhere.  Finally  I  told  her 
I  didn't  want  to  go  out.  Then  she  accused  me  of 
never  wanting  to  take  her  anywhere,  that  she 
knew  I  was  planning  to  see  you,  and  that  she 
didn't  intend  to  tolerate  it  much  longer.  I  didn't 
answer  her  —  I  went  into  the  library  and  closed 
the  door. 

"For  the  rest  of  the  day  she  watched  every 
move  I  made.  When  I  went  to  the  corner  to  get 
some  cigars,  I  saw  her  at  one  of  the  upper  win- 
dows leaning  far  out  to  see  which  way  I  went. 
And  when  I  came  back  she  accused  me  of  having 
sent  some  message  to  you. 

"Then,  while  we  were  at  luncheon,  the  tele- 
phone rang.  Susan  said  it  was  some  one  to  speak 
to  me.  It  was  only  a  client  who  had  returned 
to  town  and  wanted  to  make  an  appointment  for 
to-day.  I  was  at  the  'phone  such  a  few  seconds, 
that  she  didn't  have  time  to  get  away,  for  when  I 


DESPONDENCY  119 

came  out  I  found  her  listening  at  the  door.  She 
had  followed  me  up  stairs  from  the  dining  room 
—  thinking  it  was  you  who'd  telephoned.  That 
makes  the  second  time  she's  done  that. 

"  I  didn't  say  a  word,  but  she  must  have  seen 
the  contempt  in  my  face.  She  burst  into  tears 
and  said  what  she  said  before  —  that  this  was 
what  I  had  driven  her  to,  that  I  knew  she'd  never 
done  such  things,  but  now  she  couldn't  help  it. 
Oh,  it  sickened  me  —  the  whole  thing  sickened 
me." 

"  But  you  don't  feel  that  you  are  to  blame? 
You  don't  think  she  was  justified  in  — "  faltered 
Margaret. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it  —  I  do  feel  that.  She 
is  right ;  I  have  driven  her  to  this.  It  seems  pit- 
iable that  our  love  should  bring  humiliation  and 
loss  of  self-respect  to  three  people." 

"Ah,  don't  say  that!" 

"  It's  true.  Don't  you  think  I  know  how  all 
these  weeks  of  clandestine  meetings  have  hurt 
you?  And  I'm  being  daily  forced  into  lies  and 
petty  deceptions  of  all  kinds." 

"  Then  you  mean  —  you  mean  that  our  love  is 
wrong?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered : 


120         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  so  far  it 
has  brought  only  suffering  to  us  all." 

"And  you  can  say  that  when  you  have  the 
memory  of  -all  our  wonderful  hours  together  — 
golden  hours!  The  most  wonderful  happiness 
either  of  us  have  ever  known ! " 

He  was  silent. 

The  sense  of  a  great  dread  and  foreboding  filled 
Margaret's  heart.  Was  this  the  beginning  of  the 
end?  Would  all  these  difficulties  and  humilia- 
tions at  last  make  him  revolt  at  the  love  that  had 
caused  them?  She  thought  of  his  financial  loss, 
the  loss  of  almost  his  entire  fortune,  and  of  all 
the  distress  that  had  come  to  him  through  her, 
indirectly,  of  course,  but  still  through  her.  A 
man's  love?  After  all,  what  did  she  know  of  a 
man's  love?  The  feeling  of  permanency  and  se- 
curity she  had  felt  in  his  love  —  what  had  she 
based  it  on?  How  could  she  know  that  it  would 
be  strong  enough  to  last  through  continued  suf- 
fering and  hardships? 

"  Forgive  me,  dear.  I  shouldn't  worry  you 
with  all  this.  You've  enough  to  bear  as  it  is. 
I  think  I  felt  unusually  depressed  to-day  or  I 
shouldn't  have  brought  this  up.  Put  it  all  aside, 


DESPONDENCY  121 

try  to  forget  it ;  we  will  find  some  way  out  of  it 
all  yet." 

But  she  knew  the  note  of  cheerfulness  was 
forced,  and  she  went  home  with  a  sense  of  dread 
still  heavy  within  her. 

With  restless,  almost  feverish  eagerness,  she 
looked  forward  to  their  next  meeting,  hoping  it 
would  help  her,  that  he  would  be  different,  more 
like  he  used  to  be,  that  in  some  way  he  would 
lighten  this  feeling  of  gloom  that  was  over  her. 
And  yet  how  often  lately  she  had  looked  forward 
to  their  meetings  with  this  same  hope,  only  to 
come  away  more  despondent  than  ever. 

It  was  just  two  minutes  of  four  the  next  after- 
noon when  she  reached  the  seventy-second  sub- 
way station.  She  was  a  little  surprised  and  hurt 
to  find  that  he  was  not  already  there. 

While  the  appointment  was  for  four  o'clock, 
he  had  always  made  it  a  rule  to  be  several  mo- 
ments early.  She  could  not  recall  a  time  in 
which  he  had  not  been  there  first;  he  had  often 
said  he  never  wanted  to  have  her  wait  for  him. 
That  humiliation,  at  least,  he  could  spare  her. 

Pour  o'clock!  Five  —  ten  —  twenty  minutes 
after !  Her  feelings  alternated  between  anxiety 


122         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

and  indignation.  But  as  train  after  train  passed 
and  did  not  bring  him,  she  forgot  her  resentment 
in  a  sick  fear  and  apprehension.  In  an  agony 
of  suspense  she  watched  the  crowd  pour  off  from 
every  train  as  the  guards  swung  back  the  gates. 
There  seemed  to  her  something  sinister  in  all 
these  strange  faces  among  which  she  could  not 
find  his. 

Something  had  happened !  Should  she  go  back 
to  her  apartment,  where  he  could  reach  her  by 
telephone?  There  was  no  way  he  could  get  any 
message  to  her  here.  The  clock  over  the  ticket 
agent's  window  pointed  now  to  a  quarter  of 
five.  She  would  wait  for  one  more  train. 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face  in  the  glass 
of  a  slot  machine.  How  pale  she  was !  The  girl 
behind  the  news  stand  was  watching  her  curi- 
ously. She  walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  plat- 
form. By  leaning  forward  she  could  see  the  red 
lights  of  a  train  speeding  toward  her  through 
the  black  gaping  tunnel.  A  moment  later  it  had 
drawn  up  by  the  platform.  The  gates  were  open. 
He  was  not  there!  And  then  she  saw  him 
coming  toward  her  —  hurrying  from  the  last 
car. 

After  the  first  throb  of  joy  and  relief,  all  her 


DESPONDENCY 


indignation  returned.  She  did  not  move  to  meet 
him. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  be  late,"  he  said  quietly. 

Margaret  caught  her  breath.  She  had  ex- 
pected the  most  profuse  apologies  and  regrets. 
He  said  nothing  more.  In  silence  he  led  her  up 
out  of  the  subway  and  through  a  quiet  street. 

At  length  she  turned  to  him,  her  face  burning 
hotly. 

"And  that's  all?  You  kept  me  waiting  there 
almost  an  hour  —  and  you've  no  explanations?  " 

"None  that  you  would  consider  adequate.  I 
might  invent  one,"  bitterly.  "I'm  being  con- 
stantly forced  into  lying  to  her,  but  I'd  hoped 
that  I  might  continue  to  tell  you  the  truth." 

"I  don't  think  I  understand,"  coldly.  "Do 
you  mean  that  it  was  possible  for  you  to  have  pre- 
vented this?" 

"It  was  possible  —  yes." 

She  knew  this  mood;  she  had  seen  much  of  it 
lately.  It  was  a  sort  of  defiant  bitterness  that 
he  had  come  to  assume  when  the  difficulties  of  his 
position  weighed  too  heavily  upon  him  —  when 
he  felt  too  keenly  his  helplessness.  That  his 
heart  was  full  of  the  deepest  pain  and  remorse 
for  having  subjected  her  to  this  long  wait  in  a 


124.          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

public  place,  she  knew;  and  that,  whatever  he 
might  say,  his  delay  had  been  unavoidable,  she 
also  knew.  She  knew  now  that  he  had  been  de- 
tained by  Tier,  for  some  trivial  thing  that  he  was 
helpless  to  prevent,  and  it  was  that  fact  which 
so  embittered  him. 

Her  resentment  suddenly  vanished  before  a 
finer  understanding  and  sympathy  as  she  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm  with  a  gentle, 

"It's  all  right,  dear.  You  need  make  no  ex- 
cuse or  explanation.  In  a  way  I  think  I  under- 
stand." 

Instantly  his  expression  changed  to  one  of 
quivering  tenderness. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  Margaret  —  that  you're 
willing  to  put  this  aside  without  any  explanation 
at  all,  to  believe  it  was  unavoidable  without 
knowing  why,  without  even  my  assertion  that  it 
was?" 

"  Yes." 

Then  he  stooped  over  her  with  the  tone  and 
words  she  so  loved  to  hear,  and  that  he  only  used 
when  most  deeply  moved. 

"  Margaret,  dear  little  girl !  " 

And  in  that  moment  she  felt  nearer  to  him  than 


DESPONDENCY  125 

she  had  for  days.  There  was  a  long,  intimate 
silence,  then  he  said  slowly, 

"  But  I  want  to  explain  it  —  I  owe  you  that. 
It  is  the  least  I  can  do." 

"No  —  no,  not  if  for  any  reason  you  would 
rather  not." 

"  I  think  now  I  would  rather  tell  you.  I  sup- 
pose you  know  who  it  was  that  kept  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  now." 

"  She  came  down  to  the  office  about  half  past 
three  and  wanted  me  to  go  with  her  to  have  a  ring 
re-set.  I  told  her  I  was  sorry,  but  that  I  had 
an  appointment  at  four.  Something  in  my  man- 
ner and  my  failure  to  tell  her  what  the  appoint- 
ment was  must  have  aroused  her  suspicions,  for 
she  became  very  insistent.  The  jeweller  was 
around  on  Maiden  Lane  and  I  thought  I'd  have 
time  to  go  with  her  and  still  meet  you  at  four. 
But  she  seemed  to  resent  my  haste,  and  did  every- 
thing she  could  to  detain  me.  At  the  last  mo- 
ment, she  decided  to  have  two  more  stones  added 
to  the  setting  and  forced  me  to  stay  and  help 
select  them.  I  felt  she  was  doing  it  purposely, 
that  she  believed  I  had  an  engagement  with  you 
and  was  determined  to  delay  me.  She  managed 


126         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

the  situation  so  I  couldn't  leave  without  being 
deliberately  rude  to  her  before  the  clerk.  And 
I  couldn't  do  that." 

"  No  —  of  course  not,"  trying  to  force  back  the 
indignation  that  was  again  rising  within  her. 
And  that  was  why  she  had  waited  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  at  a  subway  station?  He  had  been 
selecting  jewels  for  her ! 

"  Now  you're  hurt !  It  would  have  been  better 
if  I'd  taken  you  at  your  word  and  not  explained. 
You  think  I  should  have  left  at  any  risk." 

"  I  did  not  say  that." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  necessary.  I  knew  my  explana- 
tion would  seem  wholly  inadequate  to  you  — it 
does  to  me.  And  yet  if  it  were  to  happen  again 
in  the  same  way,  I  couldn't  do  differently.  But 
I  see  now  that  I  should  have  lied  to  you,  that  I 
should  have  invented  some  accident,  something 
that  would  have  made  it  physically  impossible  for 
me  to  get  here.  That  would  have  saved  your 
sense  of  pride.  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't,  ex- 
cept that  I  always  want  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
feel  that  when  we  begin  to  lie  to  each  other  we 
will  have  nothing  left." 


XI 
THE  ANGUISH  OF  LOVING 

WITH  Catherine  Beeves,  Margaret's  social 
amenities  had  ended  with  the  first  visit. 
Katherine  had  returned  the  call  that  same  week 
and  since  then  had  repeatedly  telephoned  her, 
with  invitations  to  luncheons  or  the  matine'e. 
But  Margaret  had  always  made  excuses. 

There  were  times  when  she  made  them  reluc- 
tantly, when  she  longed  to  flee  from  her  own 
brooding  thoughts,  when  she  would  have  been 
glad  to  have  been  within  reach  of  Katherine's 
light-hearted  gaiety.  But  she  could  never  dis- 
pel the  impressions  of  her  first  visit,  and  the  feel- 
ing that  for  many  reasons  it  would  be  best  to 
let  it  end  there. 

Her  reluctance  to  renew  the  old  friendship 
with  Katherine,  her  gradual  withdrawal  from 
almost  every  one  she  knew,  was  the  inevitable  re- 
sult of  her  life  with  him.  Consciously  or  uncon- 

127 


128         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

sciously,  her  every  act  was  now  affected  by  that. 
She  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  acting  spon- 
taneously; everything  had  to  be  weighed  as  to 
its  possible  influence  on  their  love. 

It  was  early  one  Sunday  morning  that  she  re- 
ceived a  message  from  Katherine,  saying  she  was 
very  ill  and  begging  her  to  come.  It  was  an  ap- 
peal that  could  not  be  refused.  She  hurriedly 
ordered  a  cab  and  was  dressed  by  the  time  it  came. 
Yet  she  was  filled  with  reluctance,  with  a  feeling 
that  fate  was  forcing  her  into  something  she 
had  tried  to  avoid. 

It  was  very  rare  that  he  could  be  with  her  on 
Sundays,  but  before  she  started  she  left  Kath- 
erine's  telephone  number  at  the  desk,  saying  if 
any  one  called  to  ask  them  to  'phone  her  there. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  same  French  maid 
that  Margaret  had  noticed  on  her  first  visit, 
but  now  her  face  was  full  of  distress. 

"  Miss  Katherine's  been  crying  all  night  —  she 
won't  let  me  send  for  a  doctor  or  do  anything 
for  her."  There  was  genuine  anxiety  in  her 
voice. 

"  She's  in  here?  "  asked  Margaret  as  she  passed 
through  the  hall  to  the  bedroom.  She  entered 
the  darkened  room  and  went  over  to  the  bed 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         129 

where  Katherine  lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  come,"  she 
sobbed,  as  Margaret  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  took  one  of  her  hot  hands. 

"  I  told  the  maid  I  would  when  she  'phoned  — 
didn't  she  tell  you?  " 

"  Yes  —  yes,  but  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't. 
I  wanted  to  send  for  you  last  night  —  but  .  .  ." 
The  words  recalled  something  afresh,  and  she 
burst  into  more  violent  weeping. 

Margaret  soothed  her  as  best  she  could,  but 
already  her  heart  was  filled  with  an  indefinable 
dread. 

"  Don't  cry  like  that,  dear ;  you'll  only  make 
yourself  worse.  Nothing  in  life  is  worth  such 
tears."  But  she  felt  the  hollowness  of  her  plat- 
itudes even  as  she  said  them. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  —  you  don't  know!" 
moaned  Katherine,  turning  her  face  back  to  the 
wall. 

Her  heavy  hair  lay  in  a  beautiful  disordered 
mass  over  the  pillow.  Through  the  delicate  lace 
of  her  nightgown  could  be  seen  the  whiteness 
of  her  neck  and  arms.  Her  alluring,  voluptuous 
beauty  forced  itself  upon  Margaret  anew.  The 
blue  satin  coverlet  and  embroidered  sheets 


130         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

seemed  essentially  a  part  of  the  atmosphere  that 
always  surrounded  her. 

Suddenly  she  drew  a  crumpled  letter  from 
under  the  pillow. 

"It's  from  Ed  — Mr.  Walton.  Read  it  — 
turn  on  the  lights  and  read  it ! " 

Margaret  shrank  back.     "  Oh,  no  —  no ! " 

"Yes,  read  it!"  imperatively.  "I  want  you 
to!  I  must  tell  some  one  —  I  shall  go  mad  if 
I  don't," 

"  No  —  no,  don't  tell  me  anything  now,  Kath- 
erine  —  not  while  you're  so  excited.  You  might 
regret  it  afterwards.  One  is  so  often  sorry  for 
the  things  they  tell  in  a  moment  of  impulse." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  —  I  don't  care  for  anything 
now.  I  never  shall.  He's  left  me!  He's  left 
me!" 

She  half  rose  as  she  spoke  and  looked  at  Mar- 
garet with  wretched,  appealing  eyes,  as  though 
in  some  vague  way  she  hoped  to  have  her  words 
denied,  to  be  told  that  it  was  not  true.  But 
Margaret  could  only  gaze  down  at  the  coverlet  in 
conscious  miserable  silence.  She  lay  back 
again,  smothering  her  sobs  in  the  pillow.  In  a 
few  moments,  she  once  more  held  out  the  letter. 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         131 

"  Read  it  —  I  want  you  to  read  it." 

"I  can't.     Don't  ask  me." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  He  says  it's  ended  — 
forever !  That  it'll  be  useless  for  me  to  make  any 
efforts  to  see  him  again.  If  I  write  —  my  let- 
ters will  not  be  opened!  If  I  'phone  —  he'll 
hang  up  the  receiver ! " 

"How  unutterably  cruel!"  breathed  Mar- 
garet. 

"Cruel?  He  has  always  been  cruel — and 
yet  —  I  love  him  —  I  love  him ! "  She  had  half 
risen  again.  "  Oh,  I  want  you  to  know  now  — 
you  can  think  I'm  bad  and  shameless  if  you 
want.  I've  been  everything  to  him  for  two 
years.  It  never  seemed  wrong  because  I  loved 
him  so!  And  now  —  now  —  he  has  deserted 
me!" 

"Oh,  Katherine  —  be  careful!  The  maid  is 
in  the  next  room,"  murmured  Margaret,  feeling 
as  though  she  were  going  to  faint. 

"Marie?  Oh,  she  knows  already  —  she  has 
all  along.  But  she  adores  me  —  she's  absolutely 
loyal.  But  if  she  wasn't,  I  wouldn't  care  now ! 
Do  you  understand?  I  don't  care  for  anything 
now!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  —  what  shall  I  do? 


132          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

He  said  lie  would  never  leave  me  —  he  swore  it 
—  and  now  —  now — " 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  clasping  her  knees 
and  rocking  back  and  forth,  staring  straight  in 
front  of  her  with  great  grief-stricken  eyes.  She 
noticed  neither  Margaret's  silence  nor  her  white, 
drawn  face. 

"  He  will  not  even  see  me !  I  have  a  box  full 
of  letters  vowing  that  he  would  love  and  protect 
and  be  kind  to  me  always  —  and  now  —  if  I 
write  my  letters  will  not  be  opened,  and  if  I  tele- 
phone he  will  hang  up  the  receiver." 

The  last  phrase  she  said  in  a  sort  of  chant; 
evidently  she  had  repeated  it  over  and  over.  It 
had  been  seared  into  her  mind. 

For  over  an  hour  Margaret  tried  in  vain  to 
quiet  her.  She  persisted  in  torturing  them  both 
by  talking  of  the  days  when  she  had  been  so 
happy  with  him,  comparing  his  love  and  devo- 
tion then  with  his  cruelty  now. 

In  her  desperate,  reckless  grief,  she  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  sense  of  reticence.  She  told  of  the 
most  intimate  details  of  their  lives  —  incidents 
before  which  Margaret  paled  and  shrank.  She 
even  had  Marie  unlock  and  bring  to  the  bed  a  box 
of  letters.  Margaret  felt  she  could  bear  no  more. 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         133 

The  similarity  to  her  own  box  of  letters  was  in- 
tolerable. There  were  many  telegrams  and 
many  envelopes  with  special  delivery  stamps  — 
just  as  there  were  among  his  letters. 

When,  in  spite  of  her  protests,  Katherine 
started  to  read  aloud  a  note  dated  just  a  year 
ago  that  day:  "Sweetheart,  I  was  so  sorry  I 
could  not  take  you  out  to  dinner  last  night  .  .  ." 
Margaret  started  up  with  a  haunted  cry. 

"  Katherine,  if  you  read  any  of  those  letters 
aloud,  I  shall  have  to  leave  you." 

Katherine  let  the  letter  slip  from  her  hand  as 
she  fell  back  among  the  pillows.  She  lay  per- 
fectly still.  For  a  while,  at  least,  she  had  worn 
herself  out.  Margaret  put  the  letters  in  the  box 
and  locked  them  away  again.  Then  she  drew 
a  low  chair  by  the  bed  and  waited  silently,  hop- 
ing that  Katherine  would  fall  asleep.  But  she 
did  not  sleep.  In  a  little  while  she  was  moaning 
and  crying  again.  And  so  it  was  through  all 
the  long  afternoon. 

When  it  grew  dusk,  Margaret  slipped  into  the 
dining  room  and  consulted  with  Marie  about  get- 
ting a  nurse.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  stay 
through  the  night,  and  Katherine  was  in  no  con- 
dition to  be  left  alone  with  a  maid.  But  Kath- 


134         THE     WOMAN     ALONE 

erine  divined  the  purpose  of  the  whispered  con- 
sultation and  burst  into  a  passionate  protest. 

"  Don't  leave  me  with  a  nurse !  If  you  do  I 
sTiall  tell  her  everytMng!  I  know  I  will  —  I 
can't  help  it!  I  can't  keep  from  talking  about 
it,  and  if  a  nurse  is  here  I  shall  talk  to  her. 
Can't  you  stay  with  me,  Margaret?  Can't  you 
—  just  to-night?" 

Margaret  hesitated.  It  seemed  cruel  to  leave 
her  and  yet  .  .  . 

"I  would  do  it  for  you."  There  was  no  re- 
proach in  her  voice,  only  a  note  of  despair. 

The  words  swept  through  Margaret.  She 
knew  they  were  true.  Had  their  positions  been 
reversed,  Katherine  would  not  only  have  stayed 
with  her,  but  would  have  showered  on  her  all  the 
wealth  of  love  and  sympathy  of  her  nature.  Her 
loyalty,  her  unselfishness,  her  generous  giving 
up  of  self  had  been  tested  many  times  in  their 
school  days. 

And  now  with  a  rush  of  remorse  Margaret 
realised  how  cold  and  apart  had  been  her  sym- 
pathy. How,  in  her  heart,  she  had  stood  aloof, 
had  made  no  effort  to  control  her  involuntary 
shrinking.  Her  attempts  to  soothe  and  quiet 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING        135 

had  been  merely  perfunctory.  A  stranger  would 
have  done  as  much. 

But  now  she  stooped  over  the  bed  and  kissed 
her  with  a  sudden  warmth. 

"  I'll  stay,  Katherine  —  I'll  stay  as  long  as  you 
need  me." 

Katherine  clung  to  her  in  piteous  gratitude. 
Later,  when  through  sheer  exhaustion  she  fell 
asleep,  Margaret  went  over  and  silently  draw- 
ing up  the  shade,  sat  by  the  open  window.  The 
street  lamps  were  already  lit.  The  faint  organ 
strains  of  an  old  and  familiar  hymn  from  some 
near-by  church  seemed  strangely  incongruous 
with  the  whirling  automobiles  and  cabs. 

Mechanically  her  mind  fitted  the  words  to  the 
strains.  And  her  thought  drifted  back  to  a 
small  village  church  where  all  through  her  child- 
hood she  had  heard  that  hymn,  where  Sunday 
after  Sunday  she  had  sat  in  the  same  hard  pew 
through  long,  drowsy  sermons  and  then,  in  the 
afternoon,  come  back  for  "  Sunday  school." 

How  vividly  she  recalled  it  all,  even  the  slight 
musty  odour  which  seemed  always  to  linger 
about ;  the  narrow  strip  of  carpet  down  the  aisle, 
the  lamps  with  tin  reflectors,  which  hung  at 


136         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

intervals  along  the  wall;  the  blackboard  on  an 
easel,  that  stood  in  a  corner  during  church,  and 
was  brought  up  on  the  pulpit  for  Sunday  school. 
There  was  always  a  drawing  in  coloured  chalk 
to  illustrate  the  lesson.  One  of  them  she  never 
forgot.  In  blue  and  yellow  was  outlined  a  hill 
with  two  roads,  one  smooth  and  broad  leading 
around  the  base,  with  a  guide  post  marked 
"  Road  to  Sin,"  and  the  other  narrow  and  rocky 
leading  to  the  top,  with  a  guide  post  "  Way  of 
Righteousness."  Over  the  hill  was  a  red  crown 
and  sceptre. 

It  was  not  the  lesson,  carefully  pointed  out 
by  the  long  index  finger  of  the  Superintendent, 
that  had  so  impressed  her,  but  the  wasted  pos- 
sibilities of  the  coloured  chalk.  Why  had  they 
not  made  the  hill  green  and  the  crown  yellow? 

She  rarely  heard  the  lessons.  She  would  gaze 
out  of  the  open  windows  at  the  sunshine  glisten- 
ing on  leafy  tree-tops,  at  the  birds  shrilly  chat- 
tering, and  dream  vague,  fanciful  dreams  of  the 
great  world  that  lay  far  beyond  even  the  farther- 
est  line  of  hills  on  the  horizon,  and  of  all  the 
wonderful  things  it  held  for  her,  when  she 
reached  the  magic  "grown-up"  period. 

And    then    she   would    walk    home    through 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         137 

shaded,  sleepy  streets  and  spend  the  rest  of  the 
long  summer  afternoon  lying  on  the  grass  under 
one  of  the  big  trees  in  the  orchard,  reading  some 
romance  of  Scott  or  Bulwer  Lytton,  revelling  in 
chivalry  and  adventure,  her  own  vivid  imagina* 
tion  filling  in  the  parts  she  could  not  under- 
stand. 

The  flapping  of  the  blind  against  the  window 
sill  and  her  slight  movement  to  adjust  it,  brought 
her  mind  back  with  a  start.  For  a  moment  the 
dimly-lit  room  before  her  seemed  less  real  than 
the  little  village  church  and  the  atmosphere  of 
droning  bees  in  the  old  orchard. 

"  Ed  —  Ed ! "  murmured  Katherine  in  her 
sleep. 

In  the  street  below,  the  dark  figure  of  a  woman 
drew  away  from  the  man  beside  her  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  Margaret  could  not 
hear  her,  but  she  knew  she  was  weeping.  A 
street  lamp  lit  up  the  man's  face,  which  was 
harsh  and  impatient.  He  said  something,  and 
the  woman  shrank  farther  away.  But  he  caught 
her  by  the  arm  and  drew  her  on. 

It  was  only  another  note  of  the  great  city's 
misery  —  of  man's  brutality  to  woman.  The 
woman  in  the  street  below,  Katherine  calling 


138         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

her  lover's  name  in  her  sleep,  and  her  own  life  — 
were  they  but  different  phases?  Was  there  an 
inevitable  destiny  against  which  it  was  useless 
to  struggle?  Was  her  love  to  end  in  misery,  too? 
Not,  perhaps,  in  the  way  Katherine's  had  ended ; 
but  the  variations  of  misery  are  infinite. 

Already  she  saw  in  his  failing  business,  his 
reckless  losses,  his  growing  discouragement  and 
moocliness,  a  source  of  wretchedness  more  poign- 
ant than  that  of  desertion.  To  feel  that  she 
had  been  the  cause  of  wrecking  the  career  of  the 
man  she  loved,  of  weakening  his  courage  and 
destroying  his  ambition  —  than  that,  surely 
there  could  be  no  greater  anguish. 

A  sudden,  startling  ring  of  the  telephone! 
Before  the  first  peal  ended,  Katherine  had 
sprung  from  the  bed,  crying,  "Ed  —  Ed!"  and 
was  at  the  instrument  before  Margaret  could 
reach  her. 

A  second  later,  it  seemed  to  Margaret  that  she 
had  never  seen  anything  so  pitiful  as  the  dying 
out  of  the  radiant  joy  and  hope  in  her  face  as 
she  turned  and  held  out  the  receiver  with  a 
whispered,  "  It's  for  you ! "  then  with  a  moan 
flung  herself  on  the  bed. 

The  dear  familiarness  of  his  voice !    For  Kath- 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         139 

erine's  sake,  she  tried  to  keep  the  joy  out  of  hers 
as  she  answered.  He  said  he  had  telephoned  to 
her  apartment  and  they  had  given  him  this  num- 
ber. If  she  were  coming  home  later,  he  would 
be  glad  to  come  after  her. 

She  explained  that  she  could  not  go  home,  but 
would  he  not  call  here?  She  did  want  to  see 
him  if  only  for  a  few  moments.  He  said  he 
would  come  at  once  —  in  less  than  an  hour. 

Katherine  was  still  sobbing  heart-brokenly,  her 
face  turned  to  the  wall. 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear,  I  should  have  told  you  I 
was  expecting  a  call  here." 

"  It  will  be  like  that  all  the  time,"  she  moaned. 
"I  know  he'll  never  telephone  me  again  —  I 
know  it.  And  yet,  every  time  the  bell  rings, 
there'll  always  be  that  wild  hope  that  it  is  he! 
Oh,  I  want  to  get  away  from  these  rooms  —  I 
want  to  go  somewhere  where  I  shall  never  hear 
a  telephone  —  for  the  very  sound  means  him  — 
it  always  will." 

"  The  very  sound  means  him  " —  Margaret 
flinched  at  the  words.  For  months  it  had  meant 
that  to  her.  A  telephone  ring,  even  in  a  shop  or 
restaurant,  anywhere  she  chanced  to  be,  had  al- 
ways brought  the  same  wild  thought  —  that  in 


140         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

some  way  he  had  found  out  where  she  was  and 
was  calling  her. 

Suddenly  Katherine  turned  and  caught  her 
hands.  "  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  come  back 
to  me?  Do  you  feel  that  he  will?  Later,  when 
he  begins  to  miss  me  —  to  realise  how  much  I 
was  in  his  life?  Say  that  you  think  he  will  — 
that  if  I  stay  here  and  wait  —  in  the  end  he  will 
come  back ! " 

Margaret  could  only  hold  her  hands  in 
wretched  helpless  silence,  and  Katherine  turned 
once  more  to  the  wall. 

"He  will  never  come  back,"  she  whispered, 
"  he  will  never  come  back." 

"  If  he  knew  you  were  ill  and  suffering  like 
this  .  .  ." 

Katherine  laughed  hysterically.  "  He  antici- 
pated that  —  one  of  the  last  things  he  said  was 
for  me  never  to  get  sick  and  send  for  him." 

"Katherine,  Katherine,  can't  you  see  the  de- 
liberate calculated  cruelty  of  such  a  remark  — 
and  the  nature  of  the  man  who  could  say  that? 
Can't  you  realise  that  he  isn't  worth  your  griev- 
ing?" 

"And  do  you  think  that,  or  anything  else, 
would  make  any  difference?  I  love  him !  " 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         141 

Before  that  unswearable  argument  Margaret 
was  silent. 

Fearing  the  shock  of  another  unexpected  ring, 
she  explained  a  little  later  that  some  one  was  to 
call. 

"  You'll  not  mind  if  I  leave  you  for  a  few  mo- 
ments? I'll  see  them  down  in  the  reception 
room  and  come  back  at  once." 

"  But  you  needn't  go  down  there,"  suggested 
Katherine  weakly.  "You  can  receive  any  one 
right  here  in  the  front  room  or  the  library." 

"That  will  not  be  worth  while.  It'll  be  for 
only  a  few  moments,  and  I'd  just  as  soon  go 
down." 

Involuntarily  she  recoiled  from  the  thought  of 
seeing  him  in  that  apartment,  and  was  relieved 
that  Katherine  offered  no  further  protest. 

A  few  moments  later  she  went  down  to  meet 
him.  He  was  standing  by  the  window.  There 
was  no  one  else  in  the  reception  room.  He  came 
forward  and  took  both  her  hands. 

"  Margaret !  What  is  it?  I've  never  seen  you 
look  so  pale  and  tired." 

"It's  Katherine  —  Katherine  Beeves;  she's 
quite  ill.  I  can't  tell  you  about  it — don't  ask 
me!  But  say  something  to  drive  away  these 


142         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

cold  horrors !  Tell  me  that  you  love  me  —  that 
you're  true  and  sincere  —  that  you  always  will 
be  —  that— " 

"Sweetheart  —  sweetheart!  You're  all  un- 
strung! Come  over  here."  He  led  her  to  a  di- 
van. "  You  know  I  love  you.  Do  I  need  to  tell 
you  that?  And  I  love  you  too  much  to  let  you 
stay  here.  You're  too  sensitive  to  be  around 
any  one  who's  sick.  I'm  going  to  take  you  home." 

"  No  —  no,  I  must  stay !  She  needs  me  —  she 
needs  me  piteously.  She  won't  let  me  send  for  a 
nurse  —  she  would  rather  be  alone." 

"  There's  no  nurse?  You're  alone  with  her?  " 
he  demanded  sternly. 

"  It's  not  a  case  for  a  nurse.  I  can't  tell  you 
about  it  —  but  I  must  stay.  It  would  be  cruel 
if  I  left  her  to-night." 

Keluctantly  he  yielded.  Perhaps  he  divined 
something  of  what  it  was,  for  he  gave  her  un- 
stintedly of  what  she  most  wanted ;  he  responded 
generously  to  her  need.  Never  had  he  made  her 
feel  more  deeply  the  strength  and  earnestness  of 
his  love,  never  had  she  felt  more  sure  of  its  en- 
durance. Even  after  he  had  gone,  his  words 
seemed  still  to  surround  her  with  an  atmosphere 
of  warmth,  of  protection,  of  security. 


ANGUISH     OF     LOVING         143 

Katherine  was  lying  as  she  had  left  her,  still 
moaning, 

"Ed  — Ed!" 

With  a  deepening  pity  and  tenderness  that 
came  from  the  warmth  and  glow  of  her  own  hap- 
pier love,  Margaret  lay  down  beside  her  and 
drew  her  into  her  arms. 


XII 
THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL 

THE  house  was  dark  except  for  a  faint  light 
in  the  hall.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It 
was  half  past  one.  After  leaving  Margaret  he 
had  taken  a  long,  wandering  walk,  his  mind  full 
of  her  and  of  her  involuntary  appeal.  Stronger 
than  usual  was  his  reluctance  to  meet  the  ques- 
tions and  suspicions  that  awaited  him  at  home. 

And  now,  late  as  it  was,  he  went  back  into  the 
library,  turned  on  the  shaded  light,  drew  up  an 
easy  chair,  and  reached  over  for  cigars  and 
matches.  He  felt  he  could  not  go  up  stairs  just 
yet;  the  possibility  of  finding  her  still  awake,  of 
having  to  listen  to  complaints  and  reproaches, 
was  one  he  could  not  meet  just  then.  He  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  his  thoughts,  with  the  memory 
of  those  few  moments  with  Margaret. 

He  had  felt  her  love,  her  clinging  dependence, 
her  need  of  him,  as  he  had  never  felt  them  before. 
There  had  been  something  in  her  appeal  that  had 
stirred  the  deepest  tenderness  of  his  love.  And 

144 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL         145 

he  realised  now,  with  keen  anxiety,  how  wan  and 
thin  she  had  grown.  It  was  not  merely  the  re- 
sult of  one  day's  strain,  however  severe  that 
might  have  been.  He  knew  it  was  the  wearing 
strain  of  all  these  months,  of  the  difficulties  of 
their  position,  the  anxieties,  the  constant  dread 
of  some  impending  crisis  —  it  had  told  upon  her 
sadly. 

It  seemed  to  him  now  that  he  must  find  some 
way  to  be  with  her  at  once,  to  care  for  her  and 
make  her  well  and  strong  again.  At  that  mo- 
ment his  duty  seemed  to  be  clearly  to  her  —  to 
take  his  place  beside  her,  to  shield  and  protect 
her  at  any  cost. 

And  yet,  as  he  glanced  around  the  room,  the 
claims  of  his  wife  reasserted  themselves.  His 
wife's  picture  on  the  desk  before  him,  another  on 
the  mantel,  everything  spoke  of  her  and  her 
claim. 

There  was  a  sound  of  steps  on  the  stairs  —  in 
the  hall.  The  curtains  were  pushed  aside  and 
she  stood  in  the  library  door  clad  only  in  her 
nightgown. 

"  Why,  Mary,  I  thought  you  were  asleep,"  with 
a  feeble  disingenuousness  for  which  he  hated  him- 
self. 


146         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  You  know  very  well  I  couldn't  sleep,  that  I 
can  never  sleep,  when  you  stay  out  late  like  this." 

"Don't  you  think  that  is  very  foolish? 
Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  you  did?  "  He  rose  and 
threw  a  smoking  jacket,  which  lay  on  the  couch, 
around  her  shoulders.  "  You'll  take  cold  that 
way." 

"Would  you  care?  Does  it  make  any  differ- 
ence what  happens  to  me  now?  "  bitterly. 

"If  you're  going  to  commence  that,  I  think 
you'd  better  go  back  up  stairs." 

"No,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  That's  what  I 
came  down  for.  You  were  with  that  woman  to- 
night —  I  know !  How  much  longer  do  you  think 
I  can  stand  this?  How  much  longer  do  you  think 
any  wife  would  stand  it  —  knowing  that  her  hus- 
band went  out  day  after  day  with  some  other 
woman  —  a  disreputable  woman." 

She  saw  the  lines  around  his  mouth  grow  tense, 
and  it  goaded  her  on.  "Yes,  a  disreputable  — 
a  bad,  fast  woman,  or  she  wouldn't  go  with  an- 
other woman's  husband." 

He  was  looking  steadily  before  him,  but  the 
hand  that  held  the  cigar  trembled. 

"Why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

He  did  not  move  or  speak. 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL         14*7 

"Why  don't  you  answer  me?"  she  repeated 
fiercely,  her  voice  rising  in  her  excitement. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  when  you  talk  in  that 
way;  surely  you  must  know  that." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  helplessly, 
then  threw  herself  on  the  couch  in  a  passion  of 
tears. 

"  Oh,  I  know  it's  because  I  said  she  was  bad ! 
You  love  her !  She  has  thrown  some  hateful  in- 
fatuation about  you.  And  you're  deserting  your 
wife,  who  has  been  faithful  to  you  for  all  these 
years,  for  a  woman  like  that !  Oh,  I  can't  stand 
it  — I  can't!  I  shall  kill  myself  if  you  don't 
give  her  up ! " 

When  her  sobs  gradually  lost  their  note  of 
fierce  anger  and  became  deep  and  piteous,  he  laid 
aside  his  cigar  and  came  slowly  toward  her.  He 
touched  her  arm  awkwardly,  and  there  was  a 
forced  gentleness  in  his  voice. 

"  This  is  all  needless,  Mary.  You  work  your- 
self up  into  these  passions  for  no  cause.  You 
bring  it  all  on  yourself.  If  you  would  try  to  con- 
trol your  unreasonable  jealousy,  we  would  both 
be  much  happier." 

"You  mean  —  that  you  don't  love  her?"  she 
cried,  with  a  pitiful  touch  of  hope. 


148         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

As  she  raised  her  swollen,  tear-blotched  face,  he 
loathed  himself  for  the  feeling  of  almost  physical 
repulsion  that  swept  over  him,  and  because  of 
it  he  brought  a  note  of  real  tenderness  into  his 
voice. 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  he  tried  to  smile.  "  Do 
you  think  after  all  these  years  we  have  lived  to- 
gether that  I'm  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  any  one 
now?" 

She  looked  at  him,  half  believing,  longing  to  be 
convinced  and  yet  feeling  that  it  was  not  true. 
In  her  scant  nightgown,  which  plainly  exposed 
the  bones  of  her  neck,  and  only  half  hid  the  angu- 
lar lines  of  her  figure,  with  her  tear-bleared  eyes 
and  swollen  face,  she  had  never  seemed  so  un- 
lovely. With  a  feeling  of  mingled  pity  and  deli- 
cacy, instinctively  he  averted  his  gaze.  Perhaps 
she  felt  something  of  what  was  in  his  mind,  for 
suddenly,  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  she  threw  her- 
self against  him,  clinging  to  him  in  mute  appeal. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  soothed  her 
as  best  he  could.  He  even  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head, hating  himself  for  the  inward  shrinking 
that  he  could  not  control.  After  a  few  moments, 
she  drew  away  and,  still  sobbing,  went  back  up 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL         149 

stairs.  When  he  heard  the  door  of  her  room 
close  after  her,  he  sank  on  a  chair  by  the  desk, 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

For  almost  an  hour  he  sat  there,  motionless. 
When  he  rose  and  went  up  stairs  his  face  was 
worn  and  haggard.  No  sound  came  from  her 
room,  and  the  transom  over  the  door  was  dark. 
He  moved  softly  about  lest  he  awaken  her.  But 
when  he  turned  off  his  own  light  and  lay  gazing 
at  the  wavering  shadows  on  the  wall,  reflected 
from  the  lights  of  the  street,  he  caught  the  faint 
sound  of  a  muffled  sobbing.  It  did  not  seem 
to  come  from  her  room. 

He  rose,  tapped  on  her  door,  but  there  was  no 
answer.  Then  he  pushed  the  door  open.  In 
the  darkness  he  could  faintly  discern  the  bed, 
undisturbed  in  its  white  smoothness.  She  was 
not  there! 

He  switched  on  the  lights  in  the  hall  and  ran 
up  to  the  third  story.  The  sobs  grew  plainer. 
In  one  of  the  spare  rooms  he  found  her,  lying  on 
the  bed,  her  face  to  the  wall.  She  started  up 
with  a  cry  when  she  heard  him. 

"Why  did  you  come  up  here?"  he  asked 
gently. 


150         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

She  sobbed  some  indistinct  reply.  And  then 
he  lay  down  beside  her  and  threw  his  arm  over 
her  shoulder. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here  with  you  now — try 
to  sleep." 

Perhaps  she  felt  that  words  would  not  help 
them,  that  he  was  giving  her  the  best  he  could, 
all  that  was  now  in  his  power,  for  she  said  noth- 
ing more. 

Until  dawn  he  lay  there  —  awake.  The 
wretchedness  of  his  position  had  never  seemed 
so  great,  his  treachery  to  this  woman,  who  was 
his  wife,  had  never  seemed  so  despicable.  He 
was  wrecking  the  lives  of  two  women  —  two 
women  who  loved  him  and  depended  upon  him 
for  their  happiness.  And  he  was  failing  them 
both.  But  what  could  he  do?  How  could  he 
now  put  either  of  them  out  of  his  life?  And  yet, 
to  go  on  in  this  way,  meant  only  misery  for  all 
three. 

Sooner  or  later  he  would  have  to  choose  —  he 
would  have  to  sacrifice  one. 


XIII 
A  MAGAZINE  STORY 

STANDFOBD'S  MAGAZINE 
EDITORIAL  ROOMS 

Sept  2,  1909. 
DEAB  Miss  WABNEB: 

In  the  hope  that  now  at  the  last  moment  you  may  recon- 
sider your  decision  and  allow  us  to  use  your  name  as  the 
author  of  "The  Immutable,"  we  are  holding  the  magazine 
open  until  the  messenger  returns. 

As  we  have  told  you  in  a  previous  letter,  we  consider  this 
the  best  story  you  have  written.  It  is  because  of  its 
strength  and  brevity  that  we  have  rushed  it  through  into  this 
number,  although  the  magazine  was  already  made  up  and 
we  had  to  take  out  another  article  to  make  room  for  it. 
And  it  seems  to  us  extremely  whimsical,  not  to  say  foolish, 
to  issue  it  under  any  other  name  than  your  own. 

The  magazine  goes  to  press  at  once,  but  we  can  still 
change  the  name  in  the  table  of  contents  and  on  the  title 
page  if  you  will  instruct  us  to  do  so  by  the  messenger. 
Very  truly  yours, 

J.  M.  ARNOLD. 

Editor. 

THE  boy  was  waiting  in  the  hall.     Twice 
she  read  the  letter  and  then  drew  some  note 
paper  toward  her. 

151 


152         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

DEAB  MB.  ARNOLD: 

I  yield  to  your  request  —  you  may  publish  the  story 
under  my  own  name.  I  had  no  other  reason  for  my  wish 
to  assume  a  pseudonym  in  this  story,  except  the  desire  to 
know  what  a  few  people  would  think  of  my  work  when  they 
did  not  know  it  was  mine  —  a  reason  that  I  now  feel  is 
wholly  inadequate.  But  as  you  are  probably  accustomed, 
by  long  suffering,  to  the  vagaries  of  authors,  I  trust  you  will 
not  think  too  severely  of  this. 

Most  sincerely, 

MAEQABET  WABNEB. 

Without  waiting  to  re-read  it,  she  enclosed 
the  note  in  an  envelope.  As  she  crossed  over 
to  the  door,  the  stillness  of  the  room  was  insist- 
ent. And  as  the  boy  reached  out  his  hand  for 
the  envelope  there  was  to  her  something  almost 
sinister  in  the  act;  even  his  careless,  good-na- 
tured face  loomed  up  ominously  before  her.  She 
watched  him  down  the  hall  and  heard  the  click 
of  the  elevator  door  as  it  closed  after  him. 

It  had  gone  —  her  consent  to  the  use  of  her 
own  name  to  that  story.  The  magazine  was 
going  to  press.  On  the  twentieth  it  would  be 
on  every  news  stand  in  the  country.  The  twen- 
tieth—  eighteen  more  days! 

Her  glance  fell  on  the  telephone.  She  could 
still  stop  it.  To-morrow  would  be  too  late;  it 
would  have  passed  through  then.  But  now — • 
there  was  yet  time. 


A     MAGAZINE     STORY          153 

But  she  made  no  motion  toward  the  telephone. 
Then  suddenly  it  came  to  her  with  a  hideous 
certainty  that  all  along,  in  her  heart,  she  had 
wanted  it  published  under  her  name.  She  had 
been  only  deceiving  herself  when  she  feigned 
otherwise. 

She  thought  of  the  night  she  had  written  it, 
the  night  she  had  worked  feverishly  until  morn- 
ing, oblivious  of  weariness  or  need  of  sleep, 
swept  on  by  the  force  of  the  story.  It  was  built 
upon  what  he  had  told  her  of  his  wife;  she  had 
used  his  very  words,  haunting,  compelling,  in 
their  naked  truth. 

The  next  day  she  had  read  it  over  with  a  feel- 
ing almost  of  terror  —  it  rang  so  true.  That  she 
should  have  used  his  confidence  in  this  way! 
It  was  a  flagrant  betrayal  of  his  trust.  It  must 
never  be  published  —  she  had  told  herself  that 
again  and  again. 

And  yet  within  a  week  she  had  sent  the  manu- 
script to  Standford's  Magazine,  assuaging  her 
conscience  by  the  condition  that  it  be  published 
under  a  pseudonym.  And  now  she  had  with- 
drawn even  that!  In  eighteen  days  the  story 
would  stand  before  the  public  under  her  own 
name. 


154         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

To  the  public  it  would  be  only  an  interesting, 
well-written  story.  But  to  the  man  who  loved 
and  had  trusted  her,  when  he  saw  the  details  of 
the  most  intimate  struggles  of  his  life  laid  bare 
in  a  story  —  what  would  it  mean  to  him?  And 
to  his  wife  —  when  she  read  of  his  love  for  an- 
other woman,  the  woman  who  had  written  that 
story  —  what  would  it  mean  to  her? 

Published  under  another  name,  the  story  might 
never  be  seen  by  either  of  them,  and  if  it  were, 
it  would  be  construed  as  merely  a  strange  coin- 
cidence. But,  under  her  own  name  —  what 
would  be  the  result?  What  misery  and  wreck- 
age might  it  not  bring  to  them  all  ? 

•There  was  still  time  to  recall  her  consent;  she 
could  still  stop  the  use  of  her  name.  The  mes- 
senger had  not  yet  reached  the  office.  She  flew 
to  the  telephone. 

"3834  Madison." 

As  she  waited  for  the  number,  the  door  bell 
rang.  Again  it  rang  —  a  loud,  persistent  ring. 
She  dropped  the  receiver  and  turned  impatiently 
to  the  door.  It  was  another  messenger  with  a 
note  addressed  in  his  writing.  Unmindful  of  the 
receiver  dangling  from  the  telephone,  she  tore 
open  the  envelope. 


A     MAGAZINE     STORY          155 

Fate  seems  to  be  against  us.  Am  afraid  we  will  have 
to  give  up  the  opera  this  evening.  Last  night,  while  I  was 
asleep,  some  one  found  the  tickets  in  my  pocket.  She  denies 
this,  claims  she  found  them  on  the  floor,  that  they  had 
fallen  out  But  as  they  were  in  my  inside  vest  pocket  —  I 
hardly  think  that  possible. 

She  accused  me  bitterly  of  intending  to  take  you,  so  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  say  I  had  bought  them  for  her  and 
forgotten  to  speak  of  it.  Now  I  shall  have  to  take  her  — 
there  is  no  other  way. 

A  blinding  jealousy  swept  over  her.  She 
turned  back  to  the  dangling  receiver. 

"Hello  — hello!"  Central  shrilled  angrily. 
"  Didn't  you  call  3834  Madison?  " 

"Yes  —  but  it  was  a  mistake.  I  don't  want 
them  now."  And  Margaret  threw  up  the  re- 
ceiver. 


The  next  two  weeks  were  filled  with  a  brood- 
ing dread.  As  the  twentieth,  the  day  of  issue, 
drew  near,  Margaret  grew  more  and  more  nerv- 
ous and  apprehensive. 

The  only  reparation  she  could  now  make  was 
to  tell  him  of  the  story  before  it  came  out  —  so 
that  he  might  try  to  keep  it  from  his  wife.  But 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  tell  him  —  she  shrank 
from  it  with  increasing  fear.  What  effect  might 
it  not  have  on  his  already  depressed  and  moody 


156         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

condition  to  know  that  she  had  embodied  some 
of  the  most  intimate  and  painful  details  of  his 
life  in  a  story?  Might  he  not  even  doubt  the 
sincerity  of  her  love  when  she  could  use  these 
things  for  material? 

With  his  own  reticent  and  secretive  nature  — 
could  he  ever  understand  such  a  betrayal  of  his 
confidence?  Could  she  ever  make  him  under- 
stand that  the  story  had  written  itself,  that  it  had 
seemed  a  thing  outside  of  her  control  ?  And  even 
if  she  could  make  him  realise  how  it  had  been 
written  —  could  he  ever  understand  or  forgive 
its  publication? 

It  was  not  until  the  eighteenth,  just  two  days 
before  the  date  of  issue,  that  she  at  length  forced 
herself  to  tell  him.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon ; 
he  had  called  for  a  few  moments  on  his  way  home 
from  the  office.  She  told  him  simply,  without 
any  effort  at  justification  and  without  reserva- 
tions, the  details  of  the  story  and  of  its  coming 
publication. 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  an  envelope  which 
she  had  picked  up  from  the  desk  and  which  she 
tore  into  thin  strips  as  she  spoke.  When  she 
finished,  there  was  a  long  silence.  Still  she  did 


A     MAGAZINE     STORY          157 

not  look, up;  she  was  piecing  the  strips  together 
again. 

"You  hate  me!  You  think  it  a  despicable 
thing !  Oh,  I  know  —  I  know  .  .  ."  Her  voice 
broke  to  a  sob. 

"  No,"  he  answered  quietly.  "  Six  months  ago 
I  might,  but  now,  before  the  evidence  of  my  own 
weakness,  I  cannot  blame  you  for  yours.  I  could 
not  blame  her,  even  when  I  knew  she  had  gone 
through  my  desk,  opened  my  letters,  and  listened 
at  the  library  door.  Formerly  she  would  have 
been  utterly  incapable  of  such  things,  but 
now  — :"  He  paused.  "  I  have  come  to  believe 
that  love  and  jealousy  can  change  one's  whole 
nature." 

There  was  another  silence  which  she  made  no 
attempt  to  break. 

"As  for  the  magazine  reaching  her,  I  do  not 
think  it  will  be  difficult  to  prevent  that.  The 
fashion  magazines  are  the  only  ones  she  ever 
buys  herself  —  she  depends  on  me  to  bring  home 
the  others.  While  she  usually  reads  them,  she 
wouldn't  be  enough  interested  to  ask  for  any 
special  one,  or  even  to  miss  it.  The  only  danger 
lies  in  some  one  sending  it  to  her." 


158         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  But  there's  no  one  to  do  that  —  no  one 
knows  .  .  ." 

"Then  I  don't  think  you  need  have  any  fear 
about  it." 

"And  you  mean  —  you  mean  that  you  don't 
despise  me  for  publishing  that  story?  Oh,  but 
you  will  —  you  will  when  you've  read  it,  when 
you  realise  all  that  I  have  put  into  it ! " 

"Would  you  rather  I  wouldn't  read  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"  If  it  will  help  you  —  I  will  promise  that." 

Margaret  knew  that  she  would  have  been  ut- 
terly unable  to  keep  such  a  promise  —  and  yet 
she  felt  that  he  would  keep  it. 

"No,  I  think  I'd  rather  you  would  read  it. 
The  dread  of  it  would  always  hang  over  me  if 
you  didn't.  But  don't  read  it  now — not  for  a 
few  weeks  at  least.  We  have  seemed  so  far 
apart  lately,  there's  been  so  much  to  depress  us. 
Wait,  perhaps  things  will  be  happier." 

Then  she  broke  off  and  added,  hopelessly, 
"  Oh,  I  suppose  that  is  only  a  foolish  fancy  —  I 
don't  see  how  things  can  be  different,  and  yet 
I've  the  feeling  that  I'd  rather  you  would  not 
read  it  now, —  that  I  want  you  to  wait." 

"  Poor  little  girl !    I  know  things  don't  look 


A     MAGAZINE     STORY          159 

very  hopeful,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I'm  more 
and  more  helpless  to  make  any  radical  change. 
But  since  there's  so  little  that  I  can  do  for 
you,  I'll  gladly  do  this.  I'll  not  even  open  the 
magazine  until  I  have  your  consent.  Will  that 
help  any?" 

"  A  great  deal,"  she  smiled  up  at  him  faintly. 
For  a  moment  she  felt  that  some  of  the  burden 
had  been  lifted  from  her. 

But  when  he  had  gone,  she  told  herself  that 
he  had  not  yet  read  the  story,  that  after  all  she 
had  given  him  only  the  vaguest  outlines.  Might 
it  not  be  very  different  when  he  really  saw  it  in 
print?  But  at  least  she  had  the  assurance  that 
he  would  not  read  it  now,  and  she  felt  she  could 
trust  implicitly  in  that  promise. 

Two  days  later  the  magazine  was  on  the  news 
stands.  Margaret  first  saw  it  in  a  small  sta- 
tionery shop  around  the  corner  from  her  hotel. 
In  one  swift  glance  she  swept  through  the  con- 
tents. "  The  Immutable,"  by  Margaret  Warner, 
page  149.  Illustrated  by  F.  T.  Kempton. 

Illustrated!  She  had  not  known  that  there 
were  to  be  any  illustrations.  It  had  been  rushed 
through  so  quickly,  she  had  not  thought  there 
would  be  time  for  that.  And  they  had  sent  her 


160          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

no  proofs.  "  F.  T.  Kempton  " —  the  name  was 
vaguely  familiar,  but  she  could  not  recall  his 
work.  Hurriedly  her  nervous  fingers  ran 
through  the  pages  — 149,  then  over  to  the  next 
page  on  which  was  the  drawing. 

An  impossibly  tall  and  slender  woman  of  the 
fashion-plate  type,  whose  clasped  hands  and  up- 
turned face  had  the  effect  of  the  cheapest  melo- 
drama, while  in  the  background  was  the  debo- 
nair figure  of  a  man  pulling  at  his  moustache  in 
the  stereotyped  manner. 

The  angry  colour  flamed  in  her  face.  That 
her  story  should  be  disfigured  by  such  a  draw- 
ing !  It  seemed  inconceivable  that  the  magazine 
should  have  allowed  it  to  go  through.  Then  she 
remembered  something  that  Mr.  Arnold,  the  ed- 
itor, had  said  a  few  weeks  ago  about  the  growing 
demand  of  the  public  for  illustrations  in  which 
the  expressionless  face  and  fashionable  attire 
of  the  women  were  the  dominant  note. 

But  she  soon  forgot  the  picture  as  her  eyes 
ran  over  the  story  with  tense  absorption.  There 
were  sentences  that  stood  out  with  startling,  ac- 
cusing clearness.  How  merciless  it  seemed  in 
type!  And  yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain 


A     MAGAZINE     STORY          161 

thrill  at  seeing  his  very  words  on  that  printed 
page.  Did  she  want  him  to  see  them  too?  Was 
there  in  her  heart  something  of  pride,  of  exulta- 
tion, that  she  could  take  an  incident  in  their 
lives,  use  his  own  words  and  make  of  them  a 
story  so  vital  and  dramatic? 

She  laid  the  magazine  aside,  only  to  pick  it  up 
again  and  again,  to  pore  over  passages,  phrases, 
words.  All  that  day  and  the  next  she  lived  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  story.  When  she  saw  him 
and  he  made  no  reference  to  the  issue  of  the 
magazine,  she  hardly  knew  whether  her  feeling 
was  that  of  relief  or  disappointment. 

When  the  magazine  had  been  on  the  news 
stand  three  weeks  and  she  knew  that  it  had  not 
reached  Mrs.  Whitman,  Margaret  felt  that  the 
chances  of  her  seeing  it  were  very  slight.  Peri- 
odicals are  read  soon  after  they  are  issued  and 
not  at  the  end  of  the  month.  In  another  week 
the  December  number  would  take  its  place. 

In  all  that  time  he  had  made  no  reference  to 
the  story.  They  passed  many  news  stands,  even 
stood  before  them  at  elevated  and  subway  sta- 
tions, where  the  magazine  was  conspicuously 
displayed,  but  Ms  glance  never  sought  it.  And 


162         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

always  before  when  one  of  her  stories  appeared 
he  could  not  pass  a  stand  without  making  some 
comment  or  buying  a  copy. 

His  silence  now  was  a  keen  contrast  to  the 
pride  and  interest  he  had  always  shown.  But 
Margaret  felt  that  he  had  kept  his  promise,  that, 
whatever  his  thoughts  were,  he  had  not  read  the 
story.  And  as  his  silence  about  it  was  so  plainly 
intentional,  she  could  meet  it  only  with  silence. 


XIV 
A  TKAGEDY 

^TT'ATHERINE!" 

JLV.  "  I  didn't  send  up  my  card.  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  mind." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I'm  glad  you  came.  Fve 
been  so  worried  about  you.  Every  time  I 
'phoned  the  maid  said  you  were  out." 

"  I  know,"  her  voice  was  colourless.  "  I  didn't 
want  to  see  any  one."  The  veil  and  drooping  hat 
brim  only  partly  shaded  her  features.  Margaret 
could  see  that  she  was  pale  and  thin.  And  yet 
her  beauty  seemed  as  striking  as  ever.  The 
light  cloth  gown  clung  to  the  curves  of  her  form, 
and  there  was  about  her  that  air  of  grace,  of 
flowing  easy  motion,  peculiarly  her  own. 

She  had  not  taken  the  chair  Margaret  had 
drawn  forward,  but  was  walking  nervously 
around  the  room.  Suddenly  she  turned. 

"  I'm  going  to  his  office." 

"  You're  going  to  his  office?  " 

163 


164         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  now.  I  cannot  bear  it  any 
longer.'* 

"But,  Katherine —  what  will  that  mean? 
You  said  he  would  never  change." 

"I  know,"  sadly,  "I  still  feel  that.  But  I 
shall  see  him,"  passionately.  "  Do  you  know 
what  it  will  mean  to  me  just  to  see  him?  " 

"  Oh,  Katherine,  you  mustn't  —  you  mustn't 
do  that!" 

"Why?"  defiantly. 

"  Your  pride  —  your  sense  of  — " 

"And  do  you  think  I  have  any  pride  left? 
Any  sense  of  decency  even?  I  stood  on  the  cor- 
ner by  his  house  last  night  for  over  an  hour  — 
just  to  see  him  pass! " 

"Katherine!    And  he  saw  you? " 

"No,  but  I  know  now  that  I  wouldn't  have 
cared  if  he  had." 

Margaret  made  no  answer.  She  was  clasping 
and  unclasping  her  hands  as  she  always  did 
when  most  deeply  stirred. 

"  Have  you  any  wine  or  cognac  here?  I  must 
have  something." 

"  I've  some  cognac,  but  is  it  good  for  you 
now?"  Then  suddenly,  "You  don't  do  that  — 
do  you,  Katherine?  " 


ATRAGEDY  165 

"What?  Drink?"  She  laughed  harshly. 
"I  never  have.  But  I'd  do  anything  now  that 
would  help  me." 

Margaret  brought  her  a  glass  of  cognac,  re- 
fraining from  any  more  comments.  Uncon- 
sciously her  hand  rested  on  a  small  package 
Katherine  had  laid  on  the  table.  She  picked  it 
up.  Instantly  Katherine  sprang  forward  and 
took  it  from  her. 

"Don't  — don't  touch  that!"  Then  she 
laughed,  a  little  hysterically.  "  It's  only  some  of 
his  letters.  I  —  I'm  taking  them  back  to  him. 
It's  foolish,  of  course,  but  for  the  moment  I 
couldn't  bear  to  think  of  any  one  touching 
them." 

It  was  not  until  afterward  that  Margaret 
thought  of  the  weight  of  the  package,  a  weight 
wholly  inconsistent  with  a  package  of  letters. 

"  You've  heard  nothing  from  him  since  — 
since  that  night?  "  Margaret  asked  hesitatingly. 

"  Nothing — not  one  word." 

"And  you?    Have  you  written?" 

"  Twice." 

"And  your  letters?" 

"  Have  come  back  unopened." 

"  Oh,  Katherine,  Katherine  —  don't  go  to  him ! 


166         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Can't  you  see  what  type  of  man  lie  is?  He  will 
only  hurt  and  humiliate  you  more !  " 

"  I  must  see  him.  It  is  useless  to  talk  to  me. 
/  must  see  him!  " 

And  Margaret  felt  the  futility  of  saying  any- 
thing more. 

A  strange  unrest  haunted  Margaret  all  that 
afternoon.  Twice  she  went  to  the  telephone  to 
call  up  Katherine's  apartment  and  find  out  if 
she  had  returned.  But  something  restrained  her. 
She  struggled  against  the  depression  that  grew 
heavier  every  hour.  Her  heart  ached  in  passion- 
ate protest  against  the  cold  cruelty  of  the  man. 

Had  Katherine  really  gone  to  his  office  ?  What 
had  been  their  meeting?  Should  she  have  made 
a  more  persistent  effort  to  restrain  her?  Might 
she  have  done  more  for  her?  She  could  have  at 
least  insisted  on  her  coming  back  to  spend  the 
night.  She  pictured  Katherine  returning  alone 
to  her  rooms,  rooms  that  were  filled  with  mem- 
ories of  him. 

She  passed  an  almost  sleepless  night.  Her 
thoughts  were  on  Katherine,  but  in  the  back- 
ground was  always  the  consciousness  of  her  own 
life,  a  consciousness  she  tried  to  force  down. 
She  felt  the  same  shrinking  dread  that  she  had 


ATRAGEDY  167 

felt  that  first  day  in  Katherine's  apartment,  and 
yet —  Many  things  hovered  obstinately  in  her 
mind. 

In  the  morning  she  felt  unequal  to  going  down 
to  the  dining  room  and  had  her  breakfast  sent 
up.  Two  letters  and  the  morning  paper  were 
on  the  side  of  the  tray.  She  was  opening  one 
of  the  letters  when  her  glance  fell  on  the  paper. 

A  SUICIDE  IN  PROMINENT  BROKER'S  OFFICE. 

BEAUTIFUL  YOUNG  WOMAN  SHOOTS 

HERSELF  IN  E.  H.  WALTON'S 

WALL  STREET  OFFICE. 

NAMES  HAVE  BEEN  CONNECTED  FOR  PAST 
TWO   YEARS.     RUMORS  THAT   WALTON 
DESERTED  HER.     WALTON  RE- 
FUSES TO  TALK. 

The  black  headlines  blurred  before  her.  She 
could  read  no  more. 

It  was  days  before  the  horror  of  it  left  her, 
days  before  she  could  think  of  it  without  the 
anguished  self-reproach  that  she  might  have  pre- 
vented it,  that  she  should  not  have  let  her  go. 

The  most  harrowing  part  of  it  all  was  the 
packing  of  Katherine's  things.  She  had  left  a 
letter  asking  that  everything  be  shipped  to  an  in- 
valid aunt,  her  only  near  relative,  who  lived  in  a 


168         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

small  Wisconsin  village.  She  had  requested  that 
no  one  but  Margaret  and  her  maid  Marie  should 
pack  and  arrange  the  things  for  shipment.  It 
was  a  request  that  could  not  be  refused,  but  it 
was  a  task  that  took  all  Margaret's  strength  and 
courage. 

That  the  letter  was  written  over  two  weeks  be- 
fore her  death  showed  how  long  Katherine  had 
brooded  over  this  final  termination  of  it  all.  Her 
visit  to  Walton's  office  was  the  last  desperate 
attempt  to  win  him  back.  The  package  she  had 
carried  and  which  she  told  Margaret  was  letters, 
was  a  small  silver-mounted  revolver. 

Margaret  could  never  bring  herself  to  read  the 
newspaper  details.  But  from  Marie,  who  sobbed 
and  talked  about  it  constantly,  she  could  not  help 
but  hear  many  things  which  seared  into  her  mind, 
from  which  she  flinched  and  shrank,  and  yet 
around  which  her  imagination  lingered  with  a 
sort  of  horrible  fascination. 

With  the  incongruity,  the  seeming  intentional 
lack  of  sympathy  that  nature  so  often  shows  with 
our  most  tragic  moments,  it  was  a  clear  radiant 
day  when,  a  week  later,  Margaret  raised  the 
drawn  blinds  of  Katherine's  apartment  to  begin 


A     TRAGEDY  169 

her  work.  The  sunshine  flooded  in,  falling  in 
bright  streaks  across  the  blue  satin  quilt,  and 
over  a  lace  negligee  still  lying  on  a  chair  where 
she  had  left  it.  Nothing  had  been  touched; 
everything  was  as  it  had  been  when  Katherine 
walked  out  of  the  apartment  the  week  before. 

The  odour  of  violets  still  hung  about  the  room, 
some  shell  hairpins  lay  scattered  on  the  dressing 
table.  A  powder  puff  lay  outside  of  its  silver 
box,  and  a  white  comb  held  a  long  shining  hair. 
One  of  the  small  drawers  of  the  dressing  table 
was  partly  open,  showing  a  confusion  of  lace 
handkerchiefs,  fans  and  jewellery.  Margaret  re- 
membered that  it  was  from  this  drawer  Katherine 
had  taken  the  locket  which  held  his  picture. 
Involuntarily  she  drew  back,  sick  with  the  dread 
of  what  lay  before  her.  How  could  she  pack 
these  things?  How  could  she  touch  them? 

Marie  was  almost  useless,  for  she  cried  afresh 
over  every  intimate  belonging.  The  girl  had 
been  devotedly  attached  to  Katherine,  and  her 
grief  now  was  inconsolable. 

Besides  the  box  of  letters,  the  place  was  liter- 
ally strewn  with  his  notes.  Margaret  found  them 
thrust  beneath  the  paper  that  lined  the  drawers, 


170         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

in  the  bottom  of  glove  and  handkerchief  cases,  in 
every  compartment  of  her  desk,  even  beneath  the 
tissue  paper  of  some  bandboxes. 

At  first  she  wondered  why  in  these  weeks  of 
his  desertion  Katherine  had  not  collected  these, 
why  she  had  left  them  to  be  constant  reminders 
of  the  past.  But  soon  she  felt  the  reason. 
Katherine  had  wanted  to  leave  everything  un- 
changed —  it  had  helped  her  in  the  delusion  that 
he  might  come  back. 

Between  her  sobs,  Marie  told  her  that  in  the 
last  few  weeks  "  Miss  Katherine  "  had  dressed 
and  ordered  a  special  dinner  every  Wednesday 
evening,  just  as  she  had  for  two  years,  when 
he  had  dined  with  her  on  that  night  every 
week. 

"  She'd  even  order  the  flowers  and  have  the  two 
places  set  just  the  same,"  moaned  the  girl. 
"  Then  she'd  not  touch  the  dinner  and  would  cry 
all  night  long." 

It  was  while  Margaret  was  folding  away  some 
long  kid  gloves,  gloves  that  seemed  still  to  hold 
the  shape  and  softness  of  the  arms  they  had 
covered,  that  the  telephone  rang. 

"Hello!    Is  this  Miss  Beeves'  apartment?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Margaret,  quivering  with 


A     TRAGEDY  171 

the  horror  of  the  unknown  —  of  what  might 
come. 

"This  is  Swartz,  the  habit  maker.  Miss 
Eeeves  did  not  come  for  her  fitting  last  week. 
Will  she  make  another  appointment  now?  " 

"  Miss  Beeves  is  —  very  ill,"  she  managed  to 
say.  "  Some  word  will  be  sent  you." 

And  then  she  sank  on  a  chair  by  the  'phone. 
That  any  one  should  not  know!  It  was  not  so 
much  that  they  had  not  seen  it  in  the  papers, 
but  that  they  should  not  know.  She  had  no 
reason  for  not  telling  the  man  the  truth,  except 
the  sheer  horror  of  putting  it  into  words.  Would 
there  be  more  incidents  like  that  while  she  was 
here?  She  felt  she  could  not  stand  it. 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon  Margaret  worked 
feverishly,  with  the  longing  to  get  through,  to 
have  it  over.  When  it  grew  dusk  she  lowered  the 
blinds,  turned  on  the  lights,  and  still  worked  on. 
She  sent  Marie  out  for  a  sandwich,  determined 
not  to  go  home  until  late,  hoping  to  be  able  to 
finish  to-morrow. 

It  was  while  Marie  was  gone  that  the  door  bell 
rang.  She  had  ordered  some  packing  boxes 
earlier  in  the  day,  and  now  she  went  to  the  door 
thinking  they  had  come. 


172         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Instantly  in  a  burning  flash  —  she  knew  him ! 
It  was  the  face  in  the  locket.  After  the  first 
blind  impulse  to  turn  and  fly,  she  felt  herself 
grow  cold  and  rigidly  calm. 

Without  a  word,  and  with  only  a  slight  bow, 
he  stepped  into  the  lighted  bedroom.  The  front 
room  was  dark  —  Margaret  had  turned  on  the 
lights  only  where  she  was  working. 

In  one  glance  he  swept  the  littered  room,  the 
trunk  and  packing  boxes.  As  he  stood  there,  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  the  light  fell  full  on  his  face 
and  she  saw  that  he  had  suffered.  She  saw,  too, 
something  of  the  force  and  personality  of  the  man 
Katherine  had  loved. 

He  met  her  eyes. 

"There  are  some  letters?" 

Margaret  made  an  almost  imperceptible  in- 
clination of  the  head. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  — " 

"  For  you  to  take  them  and  be  quite  sure  that 
all  of  your  infamy  would  not  be  published." 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  taunt.  "  I 
thought  I  would  ask  you  to  burn  them.  I  think 
she  would  rather  have  it  so." 

Again  Margaret  made  the  slightest  bend  of 
her  head.  His  eyes  now  rested  on  the  dressing 


A     TRAGEDY  173 

table  with  an  expression  before  which  Margaret 
instinctively  looked  away. 

"  There  was  a  ring  —  and  a  plain  band  bracelet 
—  if  I  could  have  those  — " 

"  They  are  all  there  on  the  dressing  table.  I 
suppose  she  would  want  you  to  have  anything 
you  wish." 

Then  she  turned  abruptly  and  went  into  the 
front  room.  In  tne  dark  she  leaned  against  the 
wall;  her  hands  hung  clenched  by  her  side. 

She  had  left  him  alone  with  Katherine's  things. 
That  is  what  she  would  have  wanted.  What- 
ever her  opinion  of  the  man  might  be  —  Kath- 
erine  had  loved  him.  She  must  keep  that  before 
her.  But  he  must  not  press  her  too  far,  or  she 
still  might  not  be  able  to  control  the  wild  de- 
nunciation that  burned  so  fiercely  within  her. 
She  would  stay  where  she  was ;  perhaps  he  would 
leave  without  speaking  to  her  again. 

A  long  mirror  at  the  end  of  the  drawing  room 
reflected  faintly,  through  the  open  door,  a  part 
of  the  bedroom.  A  portion  of  the  bed  and  chair, 
on  which  the  lace  negligee  still  lay,  could  be 
seen.  Margaret  kept  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly 
upon  it.  The  dressing  table  was  against  the 
wall  on  the  other  side,  and  was  not  reflected, 


17*         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

but  she  knew  lie  was  standing  before  it.  She 
pictured  him  touching  the  things,  the  dainty, 
intimate  things  around  which  so  much  of  Kath- 
erine's  personality  still  lingered.  What  mem- 
ories and  associations  were  they  bringing  back 
to  him?  She  thought  of  the  comb  with  the  long 
shining  hair.  Would  he  see  that  too? 

Suddenly,  like  an  apparition,  he  appeared  in 
the  mirror.  For  a  long  moment  he  stood  mo- 
tionless by  the  bed.  Then  he  caught  up  the  soft 
lace  garment  and  buried  his  face  in  it.  The 
whispered  "  Katherine !  Katherine !  "  was  very 
faint  —  but  Margaret  heard  it.  His  broad 
shoulders  quivered  in  a  soundless  sob.  When 
at  length  he  let  the  garment  drop  and  raised 
his  head,  for  an  instant  the  mirror  reflected  full 
his  face.  She  knew  then  —  that  he  had  loved 
her.  Whatever  had  been  the  cause  of  his  deser- 
tion —  he  had  loved  her.  After  that  glimpse  of 
his  face  in  the  mirror,  Margaret  never  again 
doubted  that. 

And  then,  as  she  had  hoped  he  would,  he 
passed  out,  closing  the  door  softly  after  him. 
It  was  as  though  the  curtain  had  dropped  on 
some  powerful  emotional  play.  She  had  not 
known  until  now  that  her  face  was  wet  with 


A     TRAGEDY  175 

tears.  She  felt  awed  and  dazed  before  the  un- 
fathomable power  of  love.  Love  renounced,  de- 
nied, cruelly  disowned,  and  yet  in  the  end — un- 
conquerable. She  found  herself  thinking  of  this 
man  with  something  like  pity.  Whatever  had 
been  his  cruelty  and  selfishness  —  he  was  suffer- 
ing now. 


XV 

AN  UNEXPECTED  TEST 

AS  Margaret  hurried  up  the  broad  steps  of 
the  Metropolitan  Museum,  her  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  day,  almost  two  years  ago, 
when  she  had  met  him  there  just  such  a  grey 
misty  afternoon.  Many  times  since  they  had 
met  there,  but  it  was  that  day  that  always  stood 
out  in  her  memory,  the  day  she  had  thought  their 
parting  was  final. 

How  much  had  happened  since  then  — 
through  what  changing  phases  of  mind  and  con- 
ditions they  had  passed!  With  a  weighted  sad- 
ness that  she  could  not  throw  off,  Margaret  hur- 
ried on  to  the  gallery  of  ancient  pottery,  where 
they  were  to  meet. 

He  was  leaning  against  a  case  of  Majolica 
vases.  She  saw  only  the  side  of  his  face,  but 
it  wore  an  expression  she  had  come  to  know  and 
dread,  a  brooding  despondency  that  was  now 
becoming  more  and  more  frequent.  He  did  not 
see  her  until  she  touched  his  arm. 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      177 

"  I'm  sorry  to  be  so  late  —  the  cars  were 
blocked." 

"I  knew  it  was  something  like  that,"  reas- 
suringly. "  You  must  never  worry  when  you're 
detained  in  some  way ;  I  shall  always  understand 
and  wait." 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "  Do  you  know  that  in 
all  our  meetings  for  over  two  years  how  rarely 
either  of  us  has  been  late?  " 

"Yes,  I've  often  thought  of  that.  You're  a 
very  punctual,  faithful  little  person." 

She  pressed  his  arm.  "And  you  —  ah,  my 
dear!" 

They  moved  on  to  the  next  gallery.  A  row  of 
seats  was  arranged  in  the  centre  of  the  place. 

"  Are  you  tired?  Would  you  rather  sit  down 
a  while  —  or  shall  we  wander  about?" 

"  Oh,  let's  wander  about,"  she  answered 
quickly,  feeling  that  just  now  the  motion  of  walk- 
ing would  be  better  than  the  conscious  silence 
that  would  come  between  them  should  they  sit 
down.  For,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  greet  her 
cheerfully,  she  felt  the  weight  of  his  depression, 
and  there  was  within  her  no  joy  or  lightness 
with  which  to  relieve  it. 

How  much  of  this  increased  despondency  was 


178         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

due  to  Katherine's  death  she  could  not  have  told. 
But  she  knew  it  had  seared  deep  into  both  their 
minds.  They  had  come  to  tacitly  avoid  any  ref- 
erence to  the  tragedy,  but  Margaret  felt  that  it 
was  always  in  the  background,  that  it  hung  over 
all  their  thoughts.  It  seemed  to  shadow  their 
own  future  with  an  ominous  foreboding. 

The  galleries  were  now  almost  deserted.  It 
was  near  the  closing  hour,  and  the  stillness 
around  them  was  broken  only  by  the  echoing  of 
distant  sounds,  that  muffled  yet  booming  echo 
peculiar  to  great  public  buildings. 

They  paused  now  before  a  case  of  jewellery  of 
the  early  Koman  period,  curiously  wrought  rings 
and  armlets  with  strange  carvings  and  inscrip- 
tions. 

"  The  men  and  women  who  wore  those  things 
loved  and  suffered  and  fought  out  the  little 
tragedy  of  life  very  much  as  we  do  now,"  he  said 
musingly.  "  After  all,  it's  for  such  a  few  years 
at  most.  When  one  looks  at  it  in  that  way,  it 
doesn't  seem  to  matter  so  much  whether  we've 
been  happy  or  unhappy.  In  a  little  while  it  will 
make  no  difference.  To  the  woman  who  wore 
that  small  twisted  bracelet  there  with  the  glow- 
ing stones,  it  makes  no  difference  now  —  it  has 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      179 

made  no  difference  for  centuries  —  whether  she 
was  loved  or  unloved.  And  to  the  man  who 
carried  that  dagger  —  of  how  little  consequence 
are  his  victories  and  defeats ! " 

"  But  one  so  rarely  thinks  of  it  in  that  way. 
We  don't  ordinarily  feel  the  insignificance  of 
our  individual  life  and  efforts  as  we  do  here." 

"  No,  and  I  suppose  it's  better  that  we  don't 
—  there  would  be  so  little  incentive  for  any 
achievements  if  we  did." 

The  dusk  and  silence  lent  an  infinite  melan- 
choly to  this  realm  of  the  past,  these  relics  of 
antiquity,  treasures  of  lost  arts  that  had  so  long 
outlived  the  hands  that  wrought  them. 

A  chill  sense  of  dread,  of  terror,  of  the  inevi- 
table forces  of  life  and  death  was  creeping  over 
Margaret.  She  wanted  to  cry  out  to  him  to  take 
her  away  from  this  tomb  of  the  ages,  to  give  her 
life  and  love  and  joy  and  laughter!  And  yet 
she  realised  how  little  he  could  give  her,  how 
helpless  he  was  to  shield  or  protect  her  in  any 
way. 

It  was  not  until  a  great  gong  struck  the  clos- 
ing hour  that  either  of  them  spoke.  A  guard 
came  through,  calling  "  All  out !  All  out !  " 

How  strange  the  street  seemed  after  that  hour 


180         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

in  the  archives  of  the  past.  For  a  few  moments 
Margaret  felt  that  the  things  they  had  left  in 
those  gloomy  galleries  were  more  real,  more  a 
part  of  her  own  life,  than  this  hurrying  crowd, 
these  glittering  cabs  and  carriages  with  their 
shining  lamps.  The  transition  was  too  sudden 
from  the  silence  and  gloom  of  the  museum  to  the 
throbbing  life  of  this  great  city. 

Instinctively,  to  avoid  some  of  the  noise  and 
glare  of  the  streets,  they  turned  into  the  park. 
Again  Margaret  thought  of  that  day  two  years 
ago  when  they  had  left  the  Museum  and  walked 
through  the  park,  the  same  path  they  had  chosen 
now.  The  same  deserted  seats  lined  the  way, 
the  same  lamps  glimmered  here  and  there  among 
the  trees.  Now  they  were  walking  over  the  same 
rustic  bridge ;  the  dark  water  reflected  the  lights 
now  as  it  had  then. 

"  The  swans  are  missing,"  he  said  quietly,  as 
he  drew  her  to  a  pause  by  the  railing,  just  where 
they  had  stood  before. 

She  started.     "  Were  you  — " 

He  nodded. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  —  the  brooding 
silence  that  had  of  late  become  so  large  a  part  of 
all  their  wanderings.  With  sick  foreboding 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      181 

Margaret  realised  how  little  they  had  to  say  to 
each  other  now.  They  were  both  so  tired  of  these 
aimless,  homeless  wanderings.  The  charm  they 
had  for  them  in  the  beginning  had  long  since 
worn  away.  And  yet,  as  he  had  said  bitterly  a 
few  days  before,  they  had  only  the  streets  and 
restaurants.  And  when  Margaret  had  cried  out 
futilely  as  she  had  so  many  times  before,  would 
it  always  be  like  this  —  would  they  never  have 
a  home  —  he  could  only  give  her  the  same  hope- 
less answer  —  that  he  did  not  know  —  they  must 
try  to  wait. 

The  path  had  finally  led  them  out  of  the  park, 
and  now  they  were  walking  along  a  rather  dark 
and  dreary  side  street.  Their  usual  endings  to 
walks  like  this,  particularly  on  a  cold  or  damp 
day,  was  a  half  hour  in  some  cafe"  with  a  glass  of 
wine  or  cognac.  But  lately  he  seemed  rather  to 
avoid  this.  Margaret  vaguely  felt  the  reason  — 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  take  her  so  often  to  such 
places.  But  now  she  was  chilled  through,  with 
both  the  cold  and  the  depression  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Oh,  do  take  me  somewhere  where  it's  warm 
and  light  —  I'm  so  cold  and  tired ! " 

Instantly  he  aroused  himself.  "Poor  little 
girl,  how  thoughtless  I've  been !  We  should  have 


182         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

taken  a  cab  when  we  came  out  of  the  park. 
Where  shall  we  go?  I  don't  know  any  place 
around  here." 

"Isn't  that  a  caf6  down  the  street  —  on  the 
other  side?" 

"That  doesn't  look  very  attractive.  I  don't 
much  like  to  take  you  to  such  places." 

"  It  doesn't  matter —  any  place  will  do  for  a 
few  moments.  We  won't  have  time  to  go  any- 
where else." 

He  made  no  further  protest  and  they  crossed 
the  street.  It  was  a  small  German  rathskeller. 
A  piano  and  a  strident  violin  were  clashing 
loudly  some  popular  tune.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  smoke.  Although  it  was  early,  a  number 
of  the  small  tables  were  already  filled.  A  pass- 
ing waiter,  with  some  empty  beer  glasses  in  one 
hand  and  a  soiled  towel  in  the  other,  paused  for 
their  order. 

Margaret  asked  for  a  glass  of  cognac.  She 
knew  he  would  rather  she  would  have  sherry  or 
any  light  wine,  but  she  wanted  something  to  give 
her  warmth,  to  drive  some  of  the  chill  depression 
from  her  thoughts. 

She  felt  his  repugnance  to  the  place,  and  his 
greater  repugnance  to  her  own  careless  indiffer- 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      183 

ence  to  it  all.  He  was  moodily  toying  with  the 
match  stand  that  stood  on  the  table  between 
them. 

"  Why  did  you  insist  on  me  bringing  you  here? 
You  know  I  don't  like  to  see  you  in  places  like 
this." 

"Why?" 

"  You  know  why.  You  must  see  the  character 
of  the  place  and  of  the  women  who  come  here." 

"And  do  you  think  I'll  be  permanently  con- 
taminated by  a  few  moments  of  this  atmos- 
phere?" bitterly. 

He  pushed  back  the  match  safe  impatiently. 

Margaret  reached  her  hand  across  the  table 
toward  him. 

"  Don't  you  see  —  it  isn't  altogether  the  place? 
It's  because  we're  both  so  tired  of  this  homeless 
wandering  —  of  having  nothing  but  the  streets 
and  restaurants  and  caf6s.  Oh,  if  you  could 
only  come  freely  to  my  apartment  —  instead  of 
always  having  to  roam  around  like  this." 

"We've  tried  that  over  and  over  again — and 
it  always  ends  disastrously.  She  always  finds 
out,  and  then  it  takes  days  to  pacify  her.  Just 
now  she's  more  content  than  she's  been  for  some 
time,  because  she  thinks  I'm  not  seeing  you  at 


184         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

all.  And  I  must  have  peace  at  home,  if  I'm  to 
be  able  to  do  my  work  at  all." 

"  You  always  hold  that  over  me  —  your  work." 

"  I  must,  dear,"  more  gently.  "  Can't  you  see 
we  could  have  no  future  if  my  practice  goes  to 
pieces?  And  it  nearly  has.  A  practice  that 
took  me  fifteen  years  to  build  up,  almost  ruined 
because  of  my  neglect  in  the  two  years  I've 
known  you." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that  —  how  can  you  blame  me 
__how— " 

"  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Margaret,  I'm  only 
trying  to  show  you  how  fatal  it  would  be  if  I 
should  come  to  see  you  with  any  regularity  again. 
I  can  risk  it  occasionally,  but  if  it  should  be 
often,  she  would  be  certain  to  learn  of  it,  and 
there  would  be  more  scenes  and  more  sleepless 
nights  —  more  days  that  I'd  be  utterly  unfit  for 
work.  As  it  is,  I've  sleepless  nights  enough." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  she  was  content 
now." 

"  She  is,  but  don't  you  think  I'm  worried  about 
you  —  about  your  future?  Don't  you  know  I  see 
what  a  strain  all  of  this  is  on  your  health  — 
how  depressed  and  hopeless  you've  become? 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      185 

Don't  you  believe  I'm  always  trying  to  find  some 
solution?" 

"  You  do  see  that? "  She  leaned  forward 
eagerly.  "  You  do  realise  how  it  is  breaking  me 
down  —  how  thin  and  worn  I  look?  Somehow 
I've  thought  you  didn't  see  — " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  dear."  He  covered  the  hand 
which  lay  on  the  table  with  his  own.  "  But 
I  thought  it  best  not  to  talk  about  it,  that  it 
might  only  make  you  worse,  that  you  might  try 
to  force  things  —  to  use  my  sympathy  to  bring 
about  some  crisis  which  I  feel  now  would  be  fatal 
for  us  all." 

"  Oh,  no  —  no,  I  wouldn't  —  it  would  help  me ! 
It's  because  I  sometimes  feel  that  you've  become 
so  blind  and  indifferent  to  my  health  that  it 
makes  me  almost  desperate." 

"  I  could  never  be  indifferent  to  your  health, 
Margaret;  you  ought  to  know  that.  But  I'm 
always  hoping  that  I  can  do  something.  I'd  al- 
ways so  much  rather  act  than  talk." 

"And  you  know  it  isn't  really  my  health.  I 
mean  it's  only  the  result  of  all  this  strain,  that 
if  we  could  be  together  always,  I'd  be  perfectly 
well  and  happy.  You  know  that  —  don't  you?  " 


186         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

She  felt  the  warmth  of  his  hand  as  it  closed 
more  closely  over  hers.  "  Yes,  dear,  I  do." 

Her  eyes  dropped  and  a  faint  flush  came  to 
her  cheeks.  A  large  grey  cat,  with  a  leather  col- 
lar, that  had  been  roaming  leisurely  around 
among  the  tables,  now  jumped  up  on  a  chair  be- 
side Margaret.  She  stooped  over  to  pet  it,  glad 
of  a  chance  to  hide  the  colour  in  her  face.  It 
rubbed  against  her  and  purred  exuberantly. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  aglow. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  much  more  I  love 
all  things,  particularly  children  and  animals, 
since  we  met?  " 

"  I  believe  I  ought  to  know."  He  smiled  at 
her  tenderly.  "You've  told  me  several  times." 

"Oh,  how  unkind  —  have  I  said  that  before? 
I  suppose  I  have,  but  I'll  never  — " 

"  Yes,  you  will  —  you  must  say  it  many  times 
more.  Those  are  the  things  I  love  to  hear." 

It  was  a  lighter,  happier  mood  than  they  had 
been  in  for  many  days.  They  left  the  cafe  with 
a  feeling  of  weariness  that  made  them  unmindful 
of  the  chill  air  and  dreary  street. 

"Shall  we  take  this  car?  It  goes  almost  to 
my  door,"  she  suggested  quickly. 

Margaret  always  kept  him  from  calling  a  cab 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      187 

when  possible;  from  the  very  beginning  she  had 
had  an  instinctive  reluctance  to  his  spending 
much  money  on  her.  Often  her  little  subterfuges 
to  keep  down  the  expense  of  their  outings  would 
both  hurt  and  offend  him. 

The  car  was  crowded,  but  he  found  a  seat  for 
her  and  clung  to  a  strap  beside  her.  Now  and 
then,  as  the  car  lurched,  he  would  be  swayed 
against  her,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a  thrill 
that  always  came  when  he  was  very  near. 

When  they  left  the  car  at  her  corner,  he 
glanced  at  his  watch. 

"  It's  only  a  few  moments  after  six.  If  I  get 
home  for  dinner  by  seven,  it  will  be  all  right  — 
so  we  can  still  have  almost  an  hour  more.  Shall 
we  walk  up  around  the  square?  " 

Eagerly  she  assented.  Her  heart  leaped  at 
his  evident  reluctance  to  leave  her;  it  was  like 
it  had  been  in  those  wonderful  first  months. 

She  pressed  against  his  arm.  "  After  all,  dear, 
we  do  have  some  very  happy  moments  still." 

"Still?  Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"  Ah,  you  know  it  hasn't  been  the  same  lately." 

"It's  only  because  we've  been  so  worried  — 
there  have  been  so  many  things  .  .  .  But  if  we 


188         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

can  only  help  each  other  to  be  patient  —  it  may 
mean  a  greater  and  more  permanent  happiness 
than  we've  ever  had." 

They  walked  on  for  several  moments  in  silence, 
but  it  was  a  contented  silence,  not  the  brooding 
abyss  that  was  so  often  between  them. 

Suddenly  she  felt  him  start.  He  stepped 
back. 

"That  is  Mrs.  Whitman,"  in  a  tense  voice. 
"  You  must  excuse  me !  "  He  lifted  his  hat,  and 
the  next  moment  was  hurrying  across  the  street. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  perfectly  still  where 
he  had  left  her.  Then  she  walked  straight 
ahead,  seeing  nothing,  her  eyes  on  the  ground, 
her  cheeks  ablaze. 

That  he  should  have  left  her !  Left  her  alone 
in  the  street —  after  dark  —  to  go  to  her!  That 
he  should  have  subjected  her  to  this ! 

There  was  a  quick  step  behind  her — his  hand 
was  on  her  arm. 

"  What  can  I  say?  I  shouldn't  have  left  you 
—  I  see  that  now.  But  I  had  no  time  to  think. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  her.  I  thought 
she  had  not  seen  us,  and  that  I  might  prevent  it, 
I  know  now  that  I  should  have  stayed  with  you." 

"  Then  you  left  her?  "  tensely. 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      189 

"  It  wasn't  she  —  I  was  mistaken." 

"Oh  — oh,"  with  a  hysterical  laugh.  "So 
that  is  why  you  came  back  to  me !  It  took  great 
courage  to  do  that !  " 

He  made  no  answer. 

"If  it  had  been  she — and  she  had  seen  us — • 
and  you  had  gone  as  you  said  —  before  you  had 
time  to  think  —  would  you  have  come  back  then? 
Would  you  let  her  see  that  you  were  leaving  her 
for  me  —  as  I  saw  you  were  leaving  me  for  her?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  Would  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  don't  know?  " 

"  I  told  you,  Margaret,  that  had  I  had  time  to 
think  —  I  wouldn't  have  left  you.  But  having 
gone  to  her  —  I  don't  think  I  could  have  come 
back  to  you." 

"Why?"   . 

"  Because  it  would  have  been  far  more  of  a 
deliberate  insult  to  her  to  come  back  to  you 
than  it  would  have  been  to  have  remained  with 
you.  You  must  see  that  would  have  been  an  in- 
tolerable thing ! " 

She  knew  he  was  right,  and  yet,  so  fierce  had 
been  her  indignation,  that  now  the  desire  to  make 


190         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Mm  say  something  that  would  soothe  her  hurt 
pride  was  very  strong. 

"  Don't  try  to  force  me  to  say  anything  I  can- 
not mean,  Margaret  —  that  can  never  help.  I'm 
unspeakably  sorry  this  happened  —  that  I  left 
you  in  that  way.  There  is  little  enough  I  can 
do  for  you  without  subjecting  you  to  any  humilia- 
tion. It's  a  pitiable  thing  to  wound  the  pride 
of  the  woman  one  loves,  and  I'm  willing  to  say 
or  do  anything  I  can  to  make  amends  —  any- 
thing that  will  be  true." 

She  was  still  struggling  with  herself,  with  a 
jealous  indignation  that  still  welled  in  her  throat. 

"Listen,  Margaret,  I'll  do  this.  There  are 
going  to  be  guests  at  the  house  for  dinner  to- 
night, and  of  course  I  should  be  there.  But  I'll 
give  it  up  —  I'll  take  you  out  to  dinner  instead." 

With  one  of  the  quick  impulses  of  her  nature 
all  the  bitterness  vanished  now. 

"  No  —  no,  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  disappoint 
your  guests.  I'm  not  quite  so  childish  and  self- 
ish as  that!  I  know  many  times  I  must  have 
seemed  so,  or  you  wouldn't  think  such  a  sacrifice 
would  appease  me  now.  But  I'm  not  going  to 
be  like  that  any  more  —  oh,  I'm  not  —  I'm 
not  — "  There  were  tears  in  her  voice  and  eyes. 


AN     UNEXPECTED     TEST      191 

"  You  must  hurry  now,  or  you'll  be  late  for  your 
dinner.  And  you  mustn't  worry  about  this ;  I'll 
try  not  to  think  of  it  any  more." 

It  was  the  best  of  her  love  that  was  uppermost 
now. 

"  You  mean  that,  dear?  You'll  be  content  to 
have  me  go?  You'll  not  brood  over  this  and  be- 
come hurt  and  bitter  again  when  you're  alone?  " 

"  No  —  no,  I  promise  that  I  won't.  Only  — " 
She  hesitated  with  a  pitiful  little  laugh  that 
seemed  to  beg  tolerance  for  her  weakness.  "  If 
—  if—" 

"  If  what,  dear?    Let  me  do  anything  I  can." 

"Oh,  I  know  I  shouldn't  ask  you  —  but  I  do 
want  you  to  say  that  if  we  ever  should  meet  her 
on  the  street  —  that  you'd  never  leave  me  like 
that  again." 

"  I  can  say  that  with  all  sincerity.  I  hope 
it  may  never  happen,  but  in  our  constant  wander- 
ings there's  always  a  possibility  that  it  may.  If 
it  does,  whatever  the  consequences  —  I  will  stay 
by  your  side." 

As  he  hurried  home,  more  than  ever  he  real- 
ised how  much  of  the  child  there  was  in  her  na- 
ture. In  spite  of  all  the  unhappiness  that  he 
knew  this  very  trait  had  caused  them,  it  was  one 


192          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

of  the  things  that  most  endeared  her  to  him. 
And  now  his  thoughts  went  back  to  her  with 
more  than  usual  tenderness. 

The  incident  of  leaving  her  on  the  street  had 
filled  him  with  keen  distress.  He  had  a  sense  of 
having  failed  her  in  a  crisis,  of  having  been  put 
to  a  test  and  found  wanting. 

He  remembered  she  had  once  said,  "  If  it  ever 
comes  to  any  real  crisis  —  I'll  be  the  one  you  will 
fail  —  not  she."  All  through  the  dinner  his 
mind  dwelt  on  that. 


XVI 
THE  TRIP  TO  THE  COUNTRY 

MARGARET  sprang  from  her  bed  in  the 
fear  and  bewilderment  of  a  sudden 
awakening.  As  she  hurried  across  the  room, 
her  glance  fell  on  the  clock  —  it  was  only  seven ! 
What  did  it  mean?  Who  could  be  telephoning 
so  early? 

Then  she  recognised  the  voice,  but  knew  by  the 
tone,  that  nothing  had  happened. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  startled  you  —  but  I  won- 
dered if  you  would  like  to  take  a  trip  in  the 
country  to-day." 

"  A  trip  in  the  country?  " 

"Yes,  I'm  going  out  to  Fair  View  to  drive 
Prince  in.  Would  you  care  to  go  with  me? 
You've  been  out  so  little  lately,  I  thought  this 
trip  might  do  you  good." 

"Oh,  I'd  love  to  go  — you  know  that!" 

"  Can  you  get  down  to  the  Grand  Central  in 
time  for  a  7:55  train?" 

193 


194         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Yes,  yes—  I  think  I  can.     I'll  try." 

"Then  take  the  subway.  It  will  be  quicker 
than  a  cab.  I'll  be  there  to  meet  you." 

Only  fifty-five  minutes!  Could  she  make 
it? 

She  dressed  with  breathless  haste,  filled  with 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  the  day  with  him,  of 
the  long  drive  back  through  the  country.  It 
was  just  half  past  when  she  left  her  apartment. 
Only  twenty -five  minutes  more  —  and  the  sub- 
way was  two  blocks  over. 

Fortunately  she  did  not  have  to  wait  for  a 
train ;  one  dashed  in  as  she  ran  down  the  steps. 
The  car  was  crowded  with  early  morning 
workers.  At  the  Grand  Central  Station  she  saw 
him  before  the  gates  were  open.  Her  heart 
leaped  as  it  always  did  when  she  met  him,  and 
the  thought  came  to  her  —  how  often  she  had 
seen  him  like  that,  how  many  trips  they  had  had 
together,  how  rich  were  the  memories  of  their 
wanderings.  And  now,  to-day,  another  trip  lay 
before  them,  another  day  full  of  new  experiences, 
new  possibilities  for  happiness. 

"  Am  I  in  time?  "  eagerly. 

"  In  good  time,"  he  assured  her.  "  We've  six 
minutes  yet." 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      195 

He  hurried  her  up  through  the  station  and  out 
to  the  waiting  train. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  are  no  chair  cars ;  will  you 
mind  an  ordinary  coach?" 

She  laughed  happily  and  pressed  against  his 
arm.  "  As  if  I'd  mind  anything  while  I'm  with 
you.  Oh,  I'm  very,  very  happy  this  morning ! " 

"  Then  you  didn't  object  to  my  calling  you  up 
so  early?"  in  the  tone  of  one  who  knows  the 
answer  but  wants  to  hear  it  in  words. 

"  Object?  "  For  a  swift  second  she  brushed 
her  cheek  against  his  arm. 

He  bent  over  her.  "  Margaret,  dear  little 
Margaret!"  It  was  the  tone  and  phrase  that 
always  thrilled  her. 

They  had  just  reached  their  train  as  it  was 
moving  out.  With  a  quick  strong  movement  he 
swung  her  up  on  the  steps.  She  flung  him  a 
laughing  tender  glance. 

The  city  and  its  shabby  outskirts  were  soon 
left  behind,  and  they  were  whirling  through 
woods  and  fields.  There  was  a  note  of  joyous- 
ness  in  the  crisp  morning  air  and  vivid  sunshine. 
He  had  opened  the  window  beside  them  and  the 
fresh  earthy  odour  of  the  country  blew  against 
their  faces. 


196         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  wonderful  day  —  think, 
dear,  a  whole  day  together!  After  all,  it  is  a 
beautiful  world  to  give  us  this !  " 

"Do  you  still  think  that,  Margaret?"  he 
asked  tenderly.  "  That  is  what  you  used  to  say, 
but  lately  we've  had  so  much  unhappiness  —  I've 
been  afraid — " 

"  Oh,  I  know,  and  yet  if  one  can  have  moments 
like  this  —  surely  it  compensates." 

"  If  I  could  only  feel  you  would  always  think 
that." 

For  a  while  they  were  silent.  Both  felt  that 
the  other's  mind  was  teeming  with  thoughts, 
thoughts  that  involved  all  the  questions  of  their 
future,  a  future  that  stretched  before  them  baf- 
fling, impregnable  —  hopeless. 

To  interrupt  these  thoughts  that  could  only 
depress  them,  he  told  her  how  he  happened  to 
get  away  to-day.  Two  cases  that  had  been  set 
for  this  morning  were  withdrawn  yesterday  after- 
noon, which  left  the  day  practically  free.  She 
repressed  the  desire  to  ask  why  he  had  not  tele- 
phoned her  last  night,  why  he  had  waited  until 
this  morning.  But  he  divined  her  thought. 
After  a  short  hesitation,  he  said,  with  evident 
reluctance, 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      197 

"  Mrs.  Whitman  has  been  saying  all  Fall  that 
when  I  drove  Prince  in  for  the  winter  she  wanted 
to  go  with  him.  And  I  didn't  know  until  this 
morning  that  she  —  wouldn't  go." 

"  Wouldn't  go  ?  "  She  knew,  whatever  the  cir- 
cumstances, that  she  had  no  real  cause  for  the 
jealous  resentment  that  was  rising  within  her. 

"  Wouldn't  go?  "  she  repeated,  his  silence  in- 
creasing her  resentment. 

"  She  said  this  morning  that  she  did  not  wish 
to  go." 

"And  then  you  asked  me?"  bitterly. 

He  turned  to  her.  "  You  told  me  once,  Mar- 
garet, that  you  would  have  no  feeling  about  con- 
ditions of  this  kind,  that  you  wanted  me  to  take 
advantage  of  every  opportunity  to  be  with  you, 
however  it  came  about." 

"  I  know  —  I  know  I  did." 

There  was  another  silence.  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  raised  the  shade  a  little  higher,  then 
he  said  quietly: 

"  The  trees  are  unusually  brilliant  this  year. 
I  don't  remember  any  Fall  when  they  were  so 
vividly  coloured." 

"  Why  did  she  not  want  to  go?  " 

"  Because  we  had  some  words  last  night." 


198         THE      WOMAN    ALONE 

"  Some  words?  " 

"  Margaret,  are  you  going  to  insist  that  we 
talk  about  that  now?  Do  you  want  to  spoil  this 
day?" 

In  the  hurry  and  excitement  of  their  meeting, 
she  had  not  noticed  the  wearied  lines  in  his  face, 
but  she  saw  them  now.  They  were  lines  she  had 
learned  came  only  from  a  sleepless,  wretched 
night. 

"You  didn't  sleep  last  night?" 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  She  didn't  let  you  sleep?  »  bitterly. 

Still  no  answer. 

"Then  why  did  you  take  this  trip  to-day?" 

"  Because  it  was  a  chance  to  be  with  you.  I 
thought  the  outing  might  do  us  both  good.  But 
it  won't  if  you  insist  upon  talking  about  .  .  ." 
He  finished  the  sentence  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair. 

The  weariness  in  his  face  and  voice  awoke  in 
her  a  thrill  of  pity. 

"No  —  no,  I  won't,  I  promise.  We'll  forget 
everything  but  that  we're  together  for  a  whole 
day." 

A  train  boy  came  through  with  chewing  gum 
and  chocolates. 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      199 

He  turned  to  her  with  sudden  anxiety. 
"  You've  had  no  breakfast?  " 

She  smiled.     "  Have  you?  " 

"It  doesn't  matter  about  me,  but  I've  been 
very  thoughtless  of  you.  And  of  course  there's 
no  dining  car  on  here."  He  called  the  boy  back. 
"  Have  you  any  oranges?  Fruit  of  any  kind?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Can't  you  get  some  at  the  next  stop?  " 

"  No,  sir  —  not  till  we  get  to  Parkstown." 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear,"  turning  back  to  her  as  the 
boy  had  passed  on.  "  But  I  tell  you  how  we'll 
manage  it.  .  .  ." 

She  nestled  closer;  she  always  loved  to  hear 
him  say  — "  Now  I  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  or 
"  Now  I'll  arrange  it  so  we  can  .  .  ."  It  always 
gave  her  the  feeling  she  so  craved  of  being  looked 
after,  of  being  taken  care  of. 

"Fairville,  the  railway  station,  is  just  five 
miles  this  side  of  the  farm.  I'll  have  to  get  some 
kind  of  a  vehicle  there,  and  drive  over  after 
Prince.  I'll  take  you  to  the  hotel  there  and 
you  can  have  breakfast  while  I'm  gone." 

"Then  you  won't  have  any  breakfast  at  all?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I  won't  have  time.  If  I  stop  for 
breakfast,  it'll  make  us  late."  He  took  out  his 


200         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

watch.  "  We'll  be  at  Fairville  about  half  past 
nine.  It'll  take  me  over  an  hour  to  drive  to  the 
farm  and  back ;  that  will  make  it  nearly  eleven. 
Then  we've  forty  miles  back  to  New  York,  part 
of  it's  a  bad  road,  and  we  want  to  get  it  before 
dark  if  possible." 

"  Then  I'll  not  stop  for  breakfast  either  —  I'd 
much  rather  go  with  you.  I've  always  wanted 
to  see  your  farm  —  the  rustic  seat  you  made 
yourself,  and  the  little  summer  house  by  the 
creek  where  you  wrote  me  so  many  letters." 

He  hesitated.  "  But  I'm  afraid  you  couldn't 
see  those  things." 

"Couldn't  see  them?" 

"  I  couldn't  drive  you  up  to  the  house.  I'd 
have  to  leave  you  in  the  vehicle  somewhere  down 
the  road.  The  caretaker  and  his  wife  are  there, 
and  if  a  strange  woman  should  come  with  me 
they'd  be  sure  to  mention  it  to  —  to  Mrs.  Whit- 
man." 

Margaret  made  no  answer,  but  the  old  fierce 
jealousy  and  bitterness  rose  in  her  throat.  She 
was  looking  steadily  out  the  window  at  a  stretch 
of  ragged  cornfields.  It  was  always  so  —  al- 
ways she  must  be  thought  of !  They  could  never 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      201 

have  a  day  —  not  even  an  hour  together  —  but 
that  they  must  think  of  her! 

He  covered  her  hand  with  his  own.  "  I  know, 
dear  —  I  know  what  you're  thinking.  But  I'm 
afraid  it  can't  be  helped." 

"Very  well,  then.     I'll  wait  at  Fairville." 

"  Ardsdale ! "  shouted  the  guard. 

"  It's  just  two  more  stations  now,  dear." 

A  few  moments  later  they  stepped  from  the 
car  to  the  platform  of  a  straggling  little  village. 
Directly  across  from  the  station  was  a  three- 
story,  shabby  frame  building  with  a  large  sign : 
"  Palace  Hotel." 

"  This  is  the  only  place  here,"  as  he  took  her 
across  the  street.  "  I'm  afraid  you  can't  get 
much  of  a  breakfast,  but  you  must  try  to  eat 
something." 

"  And  you  won't  wait  for  even  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee? " 

"  I  think  I'd  better  not.  The  livery  stable  is 
just  around  the  corner.  I'll  get  a  man  and  a  rig 
there,  and  try  to  be  back  in  an  hour.  We  can 
have  an  early  luncheon  on  the  way.  There're 
a  number  of  good  road-houses  between  here  and 
New  York." 


202         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

Left  alone  in  the  dingy  country  hotel,  Mar- 
garet felt  strangely  desolate.  The  close,  musty 
smell  of  the  dining  room,  the  soiled  table  cloths 
and  the  smeary  catsup  bottles  banished  any  ap- 
petite she  might  have  had.  She  ordered  only 
coffee  and  rolls.  The  coffee  was  brought  her  in 
a  thick  cracked  cup,  with  a  small  pitcher  of 
bluish  milk. 

Why  not  spend  this  hour  in  fixing  up  a  lunch 
—  a  lunch  they  could  eat  on  the  way?  It  would 
save  time;  they  need  not  stop  at  a  road-house 
unless  they  wished.  She  welcomed  the  idea  with 
enthusiasm.  It  would  give  a  picnic  atmosphere 
to  their  trip,  and  how  surprised  he  would  be ! 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  exploring  the  main 
street  of  the  village.  There  were  no  delicates- 
sens, but  there  were  a  number  of  small  grocery 
and  bake-shops.  In  the  cleanest  of  the  bakeries 
was  a  capable-looking  woman  who,  under  Mar- 
garet's direction,  made  a  number  of  sandwiches 
and  packed  them  in  a  large  paper  box.  Sar- 
dines, olives,  crackers,  cheese  and  fruit  from  a 
near-by  grocer,  filled  the  box. 

Then  she  saw  him  coming  —  far  down  the 
street.  Prince  was  fairly  dancing  over  the  rough 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      203 

cobble  stones.  As  he  drew  up,  she  noticed  that 
his  face  was  slightly  flushed. 

He  sprang  out,  hitched  the  horse  and  took  the 
box  from  her. 

"  What's  this?    Our  lunch?  "  joyfully. 

She  nodded.     "  How  did  you  know?  " 

"  I'd  hardly  left  before  I  thought  of  how  much 
time  we  could  save  if  we  had  a  lunch  put  up  at 
the  hotel." 

She  laughed.  "  This  is  much  nicer  than  any- 
thing they  could  put  up  at  that  hotel.  I  did  it 
myself  —  got  the  things  at  a  grocery  and  a  bake 
shop." 

"  It'll  seem  like  a  picnic,"  boyishly. 

"  That's  what  I  thought.  But  we  haven't  any* 
thing  to  drink.  Can't  we  get  a  bottle  of  mineral 
water?" 

"I'm  afraid  not  here.  But  perhaps  we  can 
get  some  wine  at  the  hotel;  they  have  a  small 
bar  there.  Let  me  put  you  in  the  trap  first, 
and  then  I'll  see  what  is  to  be  had." 

To  Margaret,  in  her  eagerness  to  be  off,  it 
seemed  a  long  time  before  he  returned  with  a 
bottle  and  a  couple  of  glasses  wrapped  in  news- 
paper. 


204*         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  It's  a  cheap  California  claret  —  but  it's  all 
they  had." 

He  put  the  bottle  in  the  bottom  of  the  trap 
with  the  lunch  box,  and  sprang  in  beside  her. 
Prince  knew  his  touch  on  the  reins  and  dashed 
off  with  a  purr  of  delight.  They  were  soon  out 
on  the  broad  country  road.  He  leaned  over  and 
tucked  the  lap  robe  about  her. 

"Are  you  warm  and  comfortable,  dear? 
We've  a  long  drive  before  us." 

Again  she  noticed  that  his  face  seemed 
strangely  flushed  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he 
arranged  the  robe. 

"Graham,  you're  not  well?"  anxiously. 

"Not  well?    What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Why  —  you  seem  so  flushed  —  you're  not 
feverish?" 

"  I've  a  headache  —  that's  all." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  It's  because  you  had  no 
sleep  last  night  and  nothing  to  eat  this  morn- 
ing. Let  me  get  you  a  sandwich  now."  She 
stooped  over  for  the  box. 

«  NO  _  no,  not  now,"  almost  irritably.  "  Wait 
'till  we  get  out  a  little  farther.  Prince  is  too 
restless  to  stand  now." 

The  trap  lurched  heavily  as  a  sharp  turn  kept 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      205 

them  from  sliding  down  a  deep  gulch  at  the  side 
of  the  road.  A  moment  later  they  grazed  the 
wheel  of  a  heavy  farm  wagon.  As  Margaret  in- 
stinctively turned,  she  saw  the  man  looking  back 
in  angry  astonishment.  Then  she  realised  how 
recklessly  he  was  driving.  When  they  whirled 
over  a  narrow  railless  bridge,  escaping  the  edge 
by  barely  an  inch,  she  caught  his  arm  with  a  lit- 
tle cry.  Just  ahead  was  a  forked  road.  The 
horse  plunged  on,  seemingly  without  guidance, 
to  the  left.  Margaret  saw  that  the  road  was  a 
private  one  and  led  up  the  hill  to  a  large  house 
half  hid  among  the  trees. 

Without  a  word  he  turned  Prince  sharply 
around,  the  wheels  grating  fiercely  against  the 
side  of  the  trap. 

"  Graham,  do  you  mean  that  you  didn't  know 
this  road — that  you  left  it  to  the  horse?  " 

"  Why  not?  Does  it  matter  where  we  go  as 
long  as  we're  together?  " 

As  she  looked  up  in  startled  alarm,  he  drew 
her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

And  then  —  she  knew! 

She  shrank  back,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "Oh,  Graham,  what  made  you  do 
it?" 


206         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  What  made  me  kiss  you?  Why,  sweetheart, 
I  didn't  know  you'd  mind." 

Her  heart  sickened  at  the  cheap  evasion  and 
the  forced  playfulness  of  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  don't  mean  that  —  you  know 
what  I  mean !  Oh,  how  could  you  — how  could 
you?" 

He  did  not  answer,  but  she  saw  that  he  was 
frowning  darkly.  They  were  now  at  the  cross 
roads  again.  With  a  jerk  he  turned  the  horse 
back  over  the  road  they  had  first  come. 

"Graham  —  Graham,  where  are  you  going  — 
this  is  the  way  we  came !  " 

Again  he  jerked  the  horse  around,  this  time 
almost  overturning  the  trap. 

"  You're  hard  to  please  this  morning,"  with  an 
unpleasant  laugh. 

"  Oh,  how'll  we  ever  get  to  New  York  —  how'll 
we  ever  get  there?  "  She  was  almost  sobbing 
now. 

The  horse,  impatient  at  the  many  turnings, 
was  tearing  along  at  a  dangerous  pace.  She  saw 
that  his  hold  on  the  reins  was  far  from  steady. 
The  effect  of  the  liquor  was  increasing!  How 
much  had  he  drunk?  How  long  would  it  last? 
Would  he  be  able  to  manage  the  horse?  She  was 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      207 

thoroughly  terrified  now.  But  worse  than  her 
terror  was  the  hideous  realisation  that  he  should 
have  done  this  thing  —  that  to-day  of  all  days 
he  should  have  had  so  little  self-control.  He  had 
stopped  somewhere  on  his  way  for  Prince;  she 
recalled  now  his  flushed  face  and  the  length  of 
time  it  had  taken  him  to  get  the  wine.  Her  own 
face  burned  hotly  with  anger  and  indignation. 

The  trap  was  swinging  perilously  near  a  deep 
ditch  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  just  ahead 
was  another  narrow  bridge. 

"Graham,  let  me  drive  for  a  little  while  — 
won't  you?  "  tremulously. 

"Why?"  curtly. 

"  Why,  because  —  I  like  to  drive  —  and  it  will 
rest  you." 

"  I'm  not  tired." 

They  dashed  across  the  bridge  and  on  with  in- 
creasing speed. 

If  she  could  get  him  to  eat  something  —  that 
might  help.  The  very  fact  of  his  having  eaten 
nothing  since  yesterday  may  have  made  him 
more  susceptible  to  the  liquor.  She  took  the 
lunch  box  up  on  her  lap  and  opened  it  with 
trembling  fingers.  She  folded  back  the  paper 
and  took  out  a  sandwich. 


208         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Graham,  won't  you  try  to  eat  something?  " 
appealingly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You've  had  nothing  to  eat  this  morning? 
Nothing  while  you  were  gone  for  Prince?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  must  have  something  now." 

"Don't  want  anything  to  eat.  I'll  take  a 
glass  of  that  wine."  His  voice  had  grown 
thicker. 

"  Oh,  no  —  you  mustn't  have  that  now." 

"  Why  not?  "  angrily. 

She  saw  her  mistake.  "  Why  —  only  because 
I  thought  you  ought  to  eat  something  first." 

"Where's  that  wine?" 

She  did  not  answer;  the  hot  angry  tears  were 
in  her  eyes  and  throat.  The  horse,  of  its  own 
accord,  had  slowed  down  now.  Holding  the 
reins  in  one  hand,  he  stooped  over  for  the  wine 
and  glasses.  She  saw  him  pour  it  out. 

"Graham  —  don't  —  don't  —  please  don't 
drink  that  now !  "  She  caught  his  arm,  causing 
a  little  of  the  wine  to  spill  over  on  his  glove. 

"  Look  out  there  —  what  are  you  doing !  " 
harshly. 

It  was  the  last  blow  to  her  quivering  self- 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      209 

control ;  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
sobbed  hysterically.  The  lunch  box  slid  un- 
heeded from  her  lap,  its  contents  overturned  at 
their  feet.  With  a  smothered  oath  he  hurled  the 
glass  out  into  the  road. 

"Are  you  satisfied  now?    I  didn't  touch  it! " 

But  the  fierce  anger  in  his  voice  only  made  her 
sobs  more  violent.  With  another  oath  he  picked 
up  the  bottle  and  sent  it  crashing  against  a  rock. 
The  horse  reared  and  sprang  forward  in  nervous 
fear. 

White  with  rage,  and  making  no  effort  to  check 
the  horse,  he  jerked  up  the  lunch  box  and  flung 
it  out.  A  bottle  of  olives  and  some  sandwiches 
still  lay  where  they  had  fallen  when  the  box 
slid  from  her  lap.  He  gathered  these  up  and 
hurled  them  all  into  the  road. 

Margaret  was  staring  at  him  now  with  wide, 
terror-stricken  eyes.  He  did  not  once  look  to- 
ward her ;  he  was  gazing  straight  in  front  of  him 
and  she  could  see  only  the  side  of  his  white, 
set  face. 

The  horse,  now  thoroughly  frightened,  was 
plunging  ahead,  the  trap  swaying  sickeningly 
from  side  to  side.  To  Margaret  it  seemed  that 
every  second  they  would  be  dashed  out.  Then 


210         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

it  came  to  her  that  this  might  be  the  solution  of 
everything  —  death  together  in  this  way.  And 
for  the  moment  there  was  in  her  heart  no  sense 
of  fear,  no  desire  to  evade  any  end  for  which  they 
might  be  destined;  there  was  more  a  feeling  of 
fatalism,  of  freedom  from  responsibility,  of  wait- 
ing quietly  for  the  inevitable. 

A  long  clear  stretch  of  road  lay  before  them ; 
there  were  no  teams  in  sight.  And  gradually  the 
horse  wore  itself  out  —  its  speed  became  less 
and  less.  Margaret  relaxed  her  hold  on  the  seat 
and  leaned  back  with  a  sense  almost  of  disap- 
pointment that  it  had  not  come.  To  go  on 
seemed  harder  just  then  than  a  merciful  oblivion. 

They  were  driving  now  in  absolute  silence. 
Again  they  came  to  a  cross  road.  She  saw  him 
hesitate  and  then  choose  the  one  to  the  right. 
Instinctively  she  felt  that  he  did  not  know  the 
road  —  that  he  had  chosen  at  hazard.  A  few 
moments  before  she  had  looked  forward  calmly 
to  death,  but,  now  that  the  danger  was  passed, 
all  her  indignation  and  horror  at  the  situation 
flamed  up  again.  Her  anxiety  about  the  road 
finally  conquered  her  aversion  to  speak. 

"Is  this  the  right  road?  Do  you  know?" 
Her  voice  carried  all  the  scorn  and  anger  that 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      211 

she  felt.  She  had  recklessly  thrown  aside  all 
desire  to  conciliate  him  now. 

"Is  this  the  right  road?"  She  repeated  it 
again. 

"  It  may  be." 

"  Will  you  ask  the  next  person  we  meet?  " 

Silence. 

"  Will  you?  " 

Still  silence. 

Margaret  caught  her  breath;  her  face  burned 
crimson.  A  bend  in  the  road  brought  them  in 
sight  of  a  man  leading  a  couple  of  horses. 
Would  he  ask  this  man  or  would  he  deliberately 
ignore  her  request?  Unconsciously  she  leaned 
forward,  tense,  expectant. 

And  then  —  he  drove  ~by  without  a  glance  to- 
ward the  man.  The  red  in  her  cheeks  flamed 
deeper.  She  clenched  her  hands  in  her  effort  to 
keep  back  the  bitter,  reckless  words.  A  half  mile 
farther  on  and  a  man  driving  a  spring  wragon 
came  briskly  toward  them. 

"  Will  you  ask  this  man,  or  shall  I?  "  tensely. 

His  answer  was  to  lean  forward,  take  the  whip 
from  the  socket  and  cut  it  sharply  in  the  air. 
Prince  bounded  forward,  passing  the  man  in  a 
flash.  Margaret  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  hand 


212          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

on  the  dashboard.  In  another  second  she  would 
have  jumped  from  the  trap. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  He  caught  her  arm 
savagely  and  forced  her  back  into  the  seat. 

"  I'm  going  to  get  out  —  I'll  find  my  way  back 
to  New  York  alone." 

"  You'll  stay  where  you  are ! " 

He  kept  his  hand  on  her  arm  with  a  fierce 
grasp.  She  was  sobbing  convulsively  now,  in 
her  helpless  efforts  to  struggle  away  from  him. 

If  he  had  admitted  his  condition,  if  he  had  been 
penitent  and  remorseful,  her  indignation  would 
have  been  tempered  with  pity.  But  this  sullen 
defiance  aroused  all  her  reckless,  bitter  antag- 
onism. That  he  should  have  brought  her  out  for 
a  day's  pleasure  and  then  subjected  her  to  this ! 
With  an  almost  childish  enragement  she  thought 
of  the  lunch  she  had  so  carefully  prepared  and 
how  he  had  hurled  it  into  the  road. 

Again  she  struggled  to  free  her  arm  and  again 
his  hold  tightened  painfully. 

"  Oh,  I  hate  you  —  I  hate  you !  You're  drunk 
—  drunk!" 

His  only  reply  was  a  harsh  laugh  and  a  still 
more  cruel  hold  on  her  arm.  She  had  thrown 
aside  all  caution  now,  her  only  thought  was  to 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      213 

spring  from  the  trap  —  to  get  away  from  him. 

A  road  roller  and  a  number  of  workmen 
loomed  in  sight  ahead  of  them.  By  the  machine 
was  a  man  on  horseback,  evidently  a  foreman. 
When  they  neared  the  puffing  engine  Prince 
stopped  suddenly  and  began  to  back. 

As  he  released  her  arm  to  manage  the  horse, 
she  sprang  recklessly  to  the  ground.  In  an  in- 
stant she  was  on  her  feet  to  show  him  that  she 
was  unhurt.  The  fear  of  his  springing  after 
her  and  being  injured  had  occurred  to  her  as  she 
jumped. 

Two  of  the  road  hands,  thinking  she  had 
jumped  through  fright,  came  running  up  to  hold 
the  horse. 

"It's  all  right  now,  Miss;  you  can  get  back 
in.  We'll  lead  him  by  the  engine." 

What  could  she  say? 

"  No  —  no,  I  —  I'm  not  going  that  way." 

Then  she  turned  and  almost  ran  down  the 
road  without  a  backward  glance.  She  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  her  disarranged  hair  and 
flushed  tear-stained  face.  If  she  could  get  off 
the  road  —  into  the  woods  —  away  from  the  won- 
dering eyes  that  she  felt  were  following  her. 
But  on  both  sides  the  road  was  fenced  in  by  a 


214:         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

high  rail  fence.  They  had  passed  an  open  woods 
—  was  it  much  farther  back?  If  she  could  only 
reach  it ! 

Then  came  the  sound  of  wheels  close  behind. 
He  was  following  her.  Drawing  farther  away 
from  the  road  and  nearer  the  fence,  she  hurried 
on  without  turning  her  head.  The  wheels  were 
quite  near  now  —  now  they  were  beside  her. 

"Will  you  get  in  before  any  publicity  comes 
from  this?  The  man  on  horseback  is  following 
us.  He  knows  you  didn't  jump  through  fear. 
He  thinks  something  is  wrong." 

Margaret  knew  by  his  voice  that  the  incident 
had  sobered  him;  it  was  perfectly  clear  and 
steady,  but  it  was  hard  and  cold  as  steel.  He 
stopped  the  trap  close  beside  her. 

"  I'll  not  get  in ! "  passionately. 

"  You  must!  When  we  pass  this  man  I'll  let 
you  out  —  if  you  insist." 

"  You  mean  that?  You'll  let  me  out  whenever 
I  ask  you  —  as  soon  as  we've  passed  this  man?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  give  me  your  word?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  moved  toward  the  trap.  Without  waiting 
to  be  helped,  she  stepped  in  and  drew  the  lap 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      215 

robe  over  her.  He  turned  Prince  sharply 
around,  and  again  they  drove  off  in  silence.  The 
man  on  horseback  and  the  road  hands  were  soon 
met  and  left  far  behind. 

Now  that  he  was  almost  himself  again,  if  he 
had  at  that  moment  drawn  her  to  him  and  ex- 
pressed his  regret  for  it  all ;  if  he  had  been  suffi- 
ciently humble  and  penitent  —  the  day  might 
still  have  been  saved.  She  was  waiting  for  him 
to  make  some  amends  —  but  his  cold  silence  only 
the  more  bitterly  incensed  her.  Did  he  think 
she  had  weakened  —  that  she  did  not  have  the 
courage  of  her  threat? 

"  I'll  get  out  here." 

It  was  as  though  he  had  not  heard  her. 

"  You  gave  me  your  word !  "  tensely. 

"  Very  well,"  curtly.     He  stopped  the  horse. 

The  next  moment  she  was  making  her  way 
along  a  narrow  path  that  led  from  the  road 
through  an  open  woods. 

There  was  no  sound  of  wheels.  He  had  not 
driven  on;  he  was  still  standing  there.  Then 
she  heard  his  voice  —  he  was  calling  something 
to  her.  But  she  could  not  hear  the  words  —  and 
she  did  not  turn. 

He  would  come  after  her!    He  would  hitch 


216         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

the  horse  and  come  after  her.  He  would  be  full 
of  contrition  now!  When  the  trees  and  brush 
hid  her  from  the  road,  she  turned  and  listened 
tensely.  In  a  moment  she  would  hear  his  step 
rustling  through  the  leaves!  But  the  stillness 
was  absolute. 

Then  came  the  faint  sound  of  wheels.  He  had 
driven  on!  He  had  taken  her  at  her  word  and 
left  her  there! 

She  stumbled  a  few  steps  deeper  into  the 
woods  and  threw  herself  on  a  bed  of  leaves.  She 
would  lie  there  until  he  came  for  her!  She 
would  lie  there  until  he  came.  Blindly,  pas- 
sionately she  said  it  over  and  over  again  to  her- 
self. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  realised  that  her 
head  was  resting  on  the  bare  root  of  a  tree,  and 
the  rough  bark  was  pressing  cruelly  into  her 
cheek.  She  moved  slightly  and  her  head  lay  in 
the  leaves.  The  odour  of  the  earth  came  up 
fresh  and  pungent.  But  the  ground  was  cold 
and  damp  —  she  felt  the  chill  of  it  through  her 
body. 

Gradually  the  fierce  anger  died  out  of  her 
heart,  and  in  its  place  came  a  fearful  sense  of  her 
desolation.  The  leaf-stirred  stillness  of  the 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      217 

woods  seemed  filled  with  a  shuddering  pause,  a 
hushed  expectance  of  some  lurking  horror. 

If  he  should  not  come!  What  had  he  called 
to  her  as  she  entered  the  woods?  Why  had  she 
not  stopped  and  listened?  Again  and  again  she 
recalled  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  tried  in  vain 
to  fit  it  to  words. 

A  quick  rustle  of  the  leaves  near  by!  She 
started  up,  her  heart  aleap.  It  was  only  a  squir- 
rel gazing  at  her  with  bright  startled  eyes  as  it 
whisked  up  a  tree  trunk. 

She  sank  back  in  quivering  disappointment, 
burying  her  face  in  her  arm  to  shut  out  the  sight 
of  the  woods.  There  was  something  vaguely 
comforting  in  the  familiar  warmth  and  feel  of 
her  cloth  sleeve  as  it  pressed  against  her  eyes, 
and  in  the  blurred  blackness  that  wavered  be- 
neath her  closed  lids. 

Then  came  a  distant  sound  of  snapping  twigs 
and  trampled  brush  that  was  unmistakable. 
Again  she  sprang  up.  Far  to  the  right  was  a 
glimpse  of  his  grey  overcoat  disappearing 
amongst  the  trees.  He  had  not  seen  her  —  he 
was  going  away  from  her!  To  call  out  to  him 
now  would  mean  a  pitiful  confession  of  her 
weakness  —  her  lack  of  courage.  No  —  he  must 


218         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

find  her!  Her  indignation  was  still  strong 
within  her.  She  hurried  on  in  the  direction  he 
had  disappeared,  hoping  he  would  hear  her  and 
turn.  At  length  the  fear  of  being  lost  forced 
her  to  pause. 

The  silence  now  seemed  even  more  sinister  than 
before.  Once  more  she  sank  down  by  the  trunk 
of  a  tree.  The  shadows  deepened  around  her. 
She  could  no  longer  cling  to  the  hope  of  his  com- 
ing back.  He  had  made  only  a  perfunctory  ef- 
fort to  find  her.  The  encroaching  darkness  now 
filled  her  with  terror.  She  must  go  back  to  the 
road  and  make  her  way  to  the  nearest  railway 
station.  It  was  growing  colder ;  a  raw  wind  had 
risen  from  the  east.  She  was  shivering  with  the 
cold. 

With  difficulty  she  found  the  road  again.  As 
she  came  out  upon  it  there  was  a  distant  sound 
of  wheels.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came — was 
it  too  heavy  for  a  trap  —  was  it  ...  It  was  only 
a  farmer's  wagon ! 

She  choked  back  the  sob  in  her  throat  and 
turned  down  the  road.  Why  had  she  not  asked 
the  farmer  to  take  her  to  the  nearest  station? 
She  dragged  herself  on,  but  met  no  one  else; 
there  was  not  even  a  farmhouse  from  which  she 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      219 

could  ask  the  way.  The  long  stretch  of  wooded 
road  seemed  endless. 

And  then  as  she  reached  the  top  of  a  slight  hill 
• —  there  before  her  was  a  bay  horse  and  a  red- 
wheeled  trap!  A  bay  horse  and  a  red-wheeled 
trap  —  it  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  horizon,  to 
stand  out  before  her,  to  stamp  itself  on  her  brain 
as  nothing  had  ever  done  before. 

But  the  trap  was  empty  —  it  was  hitched  to  a 
tree  near  the  fence.  For  an  instant  a  great  fear 
chilled  her  heart.  And  then  she  saw  him  com- 
ing out  from  the  woods.  His  face  was  white  and 
set.  Instinctively  she  shrank  back. 

He  saw  her  then.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
quite  still.  She  did  not  move  to  meet  him;  her 
limbs  seemed  incapable  of  movement.  The  flash 
of  joy  that  crossed  his  face  changed  and 
hardened  as  he  came  toward  her.  She  was 
strangely  conscious  of  the  awkwardness  of  their 
position  as  they  stood  facing  each  other  there 
in  the  road. 

"Did  you  do  this  to  frighten  me,  Margaret? 
Was  that  your  plan?  "  His  voice  was  curiously 
quiet.  When  she  did  not  answer,  he  added  still 
more  quietly, 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  do  it  for  that  purpose  —  it 


220         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

would  be  very  hard  to  forgive  you  if  you 
did." 

Hard  to  forgive  —  to  forgive  her!  She  caught 
her  breath. 

"  Shall  I  put  you  in  now?  " 

She  submitted  dumbly  while  he  put  her  in 
the  trap.  Once  more  he  turned  Prince  down  the 
road. 

"  You're  shivering?    Are  you  cold?  " 

She  nodded. 

He  took  an  extra  robe  from  under  the  seat  and 
wrapped  it  about  her.  But  there  was  no  warmth 
or  tenderness  in  his  manner ;  only  a  formal  cour- 
tesy. As  he  arranged  the  rug,  accidentally  he 
touched  her  hand.  Even  through  the  glove  it 
was  icy  cold.  Then  he  noticed  the  purplish  pal- 
lor of  her  lips. 

"  You're  chilled  through.  Where  were  you?  " 
His  voice  was  still  colourless  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  it  now  that  forced  an  answer. 

"  In  the  woods." 

"  I've  been  searching  the  woods  for  two  hours, 
but  of  course  if  you  tried  to  hide  —  it  would  be 
impossible  to  find  you." 

"  I  didn't  try  to  hide.  You  passed  very  near 
—  but—" 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      221 

She  felt  her  mistake,  but  it  was  too  late  to  re- 
tract it  now.  And  at  that  moment  she  did  not 
care  —  she  had  reached  the  stage  where  nothing 
made  any  difference. 

"  Then  you  saw  me?  "    He  repeated  it. 

"Yes." 

"And  you  made  no  sign?" 

"  That  was  at  first  —  if  you  had  come 
back  .  .  ." 

"  So  I  was  right.  You  wanted  to  thoroughly 
frighten  me  —  to  be  sure  I  would  be  humble, 
cringing  and  remorseful.  You've  used  similar 
methods  before.  I'll  not  be  so  easily  fooled 
again." 

She  made  no  reply.  Physically  and  mentally 
she  was  incapable  of  further  effort.  The  pro- 
longed strain,  the  whole  day  without  food  were 
now  having  their  effect.  She  was  staring  down 
at  the  wheels,  watching  the  small  clots  of  earth 
fly  from  the  spokes,  miserably  conscious  that  he 
was  looking  at  her.  Her  head  drooped  —  his 
gaze  seemed  bearing  upon  her  like  a  physical 
weight.  Was  his  anger  changing  to  pity?  Still 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  whirling  wheels. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  very  cold  and  tired.  We'll 
stop  at  the  first  road-house;  we  must  come  to  one 


222         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

soon.  Bradford  cannot  be  very  much  farther 
now." 

But  his  solicitude  was  forced,  perfunctory. 

A  shabby  farm  house  stood  by  the  road  a  short 
way  ahead.  He  drew  up  by  the  fence  and  called 
to  a  man  who  was  chopping  wood  in  the  yard. 

"  How  far  is  Bradford  from  here?  " 

"  Bradford?  Why  you're  goin'  right  away 
from  Bradford.  It's  about  eighteen  miles  down 
the  road." 

"Eighteen  miles  down  the  road?" 

"Yissir.    Where'd  you  start  from?" 

«  From  Fairville." 

"Fairville!  Then  you've  been  on  the  wrong 
road  for  about  twelve  miles.  Must  have  taken 
the  wrong  turn  at  the  first  cross  roads  this  side 
of  Fairville!" 

The  first  cross  roads  this  side  of  Fairville! 
It  was  there  she  had  begged  him  to  inquire  the 
way.  But  now  she  did  not  glance  up  or  seem  as 
though  she  had  heard. 

The  man  came  down  to  the  gate.  "Now  I 
guess  you  can  make  that  about  thirteen  miles  if 
you  go  back  by  way  of  Camp  Creek  —  it's  a  bad 
road  but  it's  five  miles  saved  that  way.  You 
can  let  the  bars  down  and  cross  thro'  that 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      2*3 

meadow  over  there  and  get  on  the  Camp  Creek 
road." 

"  Thank  you,  but  the  lady  is  not  strong  enough 
to  drive  any  further  now.  Is  there  a  road  house 
near  here?  " 

"Yessir.  There's  a  pretty  good  road  house 
just  about  half  o'  mile  straight  ahead." 

He  thanked  the  man  and  drove  on.  He  made 
no  comment  on  the  information ;  he  did  not  speak 
again  until  they  reached  the  road  house. 

It  was  a  faded  white  house  with  a  wide  porch. 
A  discoloured  sign,  "  Parker's  Inn,"  hung  over 
the  gate.  A  small  dog  ran  out  and  barked  at 
them  excitedly.  Then  a  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
came  from  around  the  back  of  the  house.  He 
held  the  horse  while  Whitman  lifted  Margaret 
from  the  trap. 

"  We've  been  driving  some  time  and  the  lady  is 
thoroughly  chilled.  Have  you  a  place  with  a 
good  fire,  and  something  hot  to  drink  at  once?  " 

"  Yes  sir,  we  can  fix  you  up,  sir." 

The  man  hitched  the  horse  and  led  the  way 
into  the  house.  He  opened  the  door  into  a  small 
low-ceilinged  room,  evidently  the  "  parlour " 
from  the  organ  and  marble-topped  table.  Back 
of  this  was  the  dining  room,  with  a  long  table 


224         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

and  two  small  ones,  all  covered  with  red  checked 
cloths.  Both  rooms  were  cold  and  damp. 

"  It's  too  cold  in  here  —  you've  no  fires?  " 

"  We'll  build  one  right  away,  sir."  There  was 
a  small  drum  stove  in  both  rooms. 

"  That'll  take  some  time.  Have  you  no  fire  in 
the  house?" 

"Well,  sir,  there's  one  in  the  bar  room  —  if 
you  wouldn't  mind  goin'  in  there  for  a  few  min 
utes." 

The  bar  room  was  across  the  hall ;  a  long  room 
with  a  bar  at  one  end,  and  at  the  other,  a  large 
fireplace  with  a  smouldering  log  fire.  A  couple 
of  men  who  were  standing  by  the  door,  stepped 
out  on  the  porch  as  they  entered. 

The  man  threw  some  more  logs  on  the  fire 
while  Whitman  drew  up  a  large  wooden  rocker 
for  Margaret.  She  was  still  blue  and  shivering 
with  cold. 

"  Now  if  you'll  bring  a  hot  scotch  — " 

"Hot  scotch?    Yes,  sir  —  for  two?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Margaret's  clasp  tight- 
ened on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  Then  he  answered 
quietly : 

"  No  —  just  for  the  lady." 

The  small  dog  that  had  barked  at  them  so 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      225 

fiercely,  came  in  now,  sniffed  at  Margaret's  skirt 
and  curled  up  on  the  hearth  at  her  feet.  The 
thump  of  its  tail  on  the  floor  and  the  crackling  of 
the  logs  were  the  only  sounds  for  several  mo- 
ments. Then  the  man  came  over  with  the  steam- 
ing drink.  Whitman  took  the  glass  and  placed 
it  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  Margaret  sipped  at  it 
reluctantly;  the  odour  of  whiskey  had  always 
been  distasteful. 

"  Don't  sip  it.  Drink  it  all  at  once  if  you  can. 
It'll  keep  you  from  taking  cold." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  man  who  seemed  to  be 
both  proprietor  and  barkeeper,  and  asked  if  they 
could  have  something  to  eat  at  once. 

"  Supper  will  be  ready  right  away,  sir.  And 
will  I  put  up  your  horse,  sir?  I  reckon  you 
count  on  staying  all  night?  Your  wife  don't  look 
fit  to  travel  much  further." 

The  pause  was  only  for  a  second.  "  We've  not 
decided  about  the  night,  but  the  horse  will  have 
to  be  put  up  and  fed." 

"Your  wife"  .  .  .  The  word  seemed  still  to 
hang  on  the  air.  Had  it  thrilled  or  repelled  him  ? 
She  felt  the  possibilities  both  ways.  They  were 
alone  now.  From  outside  came  the  grating  of 
wheels  as  Prince  was  unhitched  and  led  off  to  the 


226         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

stable.  And  then  —  silence  —  except  for  the 
crackling  fire. 

He  came  over  and  took  the  empty  glass  from 
her  and  set  it  on  the  mantel.  Then  he  stood 
there  looking  down  into  the  fire. 

The  heat  was  now  burning  her  knees  through 
her  skirt,  but  she  did  not  move  back.  She 
vaguely  felt  that  the  slightest  movement  on  her 
part  would  change  the  situation  that  waited 
tensely  for  him  to  speak. 

At  length  he  came  over  to  the  chair  beside  her. 
"Are  you  warmer  now?"  He  took  one  of  her 
hands.  "Your  hands  are  much  warmer." 

A  sick  disappointment  possessed  her ;  she  had 
hoped  for  something  so  different.  He  still  held 
her  hand,  with  a  slight  pressure,  in  both  of  his. 
But  she  did  not  return  the  pressure.  He  must 
come  farther  —  he  must  do  more !  She  could  not 
meet  him  half  way  —  the  fault  had  not  been  hers. 
Again  the  lump  came  in  her  throat.  Again  she 
saw  him  hurling  the  lunch  into  the  road  —  the 
lunch  she  had  so  lovingly  prepared!  The  sting 
of  it  all  came  back  to  her. 

All  the  child  in  her  nature  was  uppermost  now. 
She  had  been  hurt,  deeply,  cruelly  hurt.  The 
least  he  could  do  was  to  make  some  expression  of 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      227 

his  remorse  —  and  instead  he  wished  merely  to 
ignore  it. 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  walked  back  to  the 
fire.  The  heat  on  her  knees  was  becoming  un- 
bearable. She  moved  back  a  little.  A  log  had 
rolled  out  on  the  hearth.  She  watched  him  push 
it  in  with  his  foot.  Then  she  watched  the  glow- 
ing cinders  where  the  log  had  lain;  one  by  one 
they  went  out. 

A  stout  kindly  looking  woman  in  a  blue  calico 
dress  opened  the  door. 

"  There's  a  fire  in  the  dinin'  room,  now,  if  the 
lady  would  like  to  come  in  there.  I'm  puttin' 
your  supper  on  the  table." 

The  dining  room  was  lit  by  a  couple  of  oil 
lamps.  From  a  window  one  saw  that  it  was  quite 
dark  outside.  A  fire  roared  in  the  small  drum 
/stove  and  the  air  was  filled  with  an  odour  of  heat 
and  stove  polish. 

The  long  table  was  set  for  a  number  of  people ; 
the  woman  placed  them  at  the  end  by  the  stove. 
With  a  painful  self-consciousness  Margaret 
sipped  at  the  glass  of  water  in  front  of  her. 
There  was  a  poignant  awkwardness  in  sitting 
there  beside  him  in  that  way.  He  was  toying 
with  the  fork  by  his  plate. 


228         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"Where's  that  tea-strainer?"  came  a  voice 
from  the  kitchen. 

"  Eight  there  on  the  end  of  the  cupboard." 

And  then,  a  little  later : 

"  Guess  I'll  take  this  milk  back  in  the  cellar  — 
if  you  ain't  goin'  to  use  it  in  the  rice." 

He  turned  to  Margaret  with  a  slight  smile. 
"  If  you're  not  too  tired  to  take  notes,  this  ought 
to  make  very  good  copy." 

"  Yes,  it  would  make  good  copy."  Her  voice 
was  as  colourless  as  his. 

In  spite  of  the  long  day  without  food,  neither 
of  them  could  eat  very  much.  The  constrained 
silence  was  like  a  wall  between  them.  He  made 
a  few  remarks  about  the  room  and  food  to  which 
she  answered  in  monosyllables.  The  thought 
of  what  would  happen  next  was  beating  in  her 
mind.  What  would  be  the  rest  of  this  day?  It- 
was  dark,  now  —  how  could  they  go  on?  And 
yet,  how  could  they  stay  here? 

The  strangeness  of  the  place  and  of  their  being 
there  was  forcing  itself  upon  her.  Every  detail 
of  the  room  she  felt  was  being  stamped  indelibly 
in  her  mind  —  the  paper  flowers  and  china  orna- 
ments on  the  mantel  behind  the  stove,  the  highly 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      229 

coloured  pictures  in  their  gilt  frames,  the  old- 
fashioned  "  castor,"  the  tall  glass  cake  stand,  the 
cheap  stiff  lace  curtains  and  the  bright-flowered 
wall  paper. 

"  Will  you  wait  here  while  I  see  what  informa- 
tion I  can  get  from  this  man.  There  may  be  a 
station  near  here,  and  a  train  into  New  York  to- 
night," 

She  waited  there  at  the  table,  gazing  through 
the  window  at  the  darkness  outside.  A  man 
passed  with  a  lantern.  A  dog  barked  somewhere 
in  the  distance. 

Then  he  came  back  into  the  room.  "  There's  a 
station  only  a  mile  and  a  half  from  here,  but 
there's  no  train  to-night  —  nothing  until  five  in 
the  morning." 

He  was  waiting  for  her  to  make  some  observa- 
tion. 

"  Not  until  five  in  the  morning?  "  she  repeated 
vaguely. 

"  I  can  see  no  other  way  but  to  stay  here. 
They've  only  one  spare  room,  but  I  can  lie  here  on 
the  lounge." 

He  paused.  "Of  course,  if  you've  anything 
else  to  suggest  —  if  you  think  you're  strong 


230         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

enough  to  drive  to  the  next  town,  we  might  get  a 
train  there,  but  it's  very  dark  and  there's  no 
moon.  It  might  be  difficult  — 7' 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  difficult  —  we'd  better  stay 
here." 

He  flushed  quickly,  but  the  sarcasm  in  her 
words  had  been  unintentional. 

The  woman  came  in  now.  "  The  fire's  already 
laid  in  the  spare  room,  sir.  I'll  go  touch  it  off  if 
you're  decidin'  to  stay." 

"  Yes,  we'll  stay,"  briefly.  Then  he  turned  to 
Margaret.  "  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  go  up  now ; 
you'll  need  the  rest.  We'll  have  to  leave  here  at 
4 :30  to  make  that  five  o'clock  train." 

"  Eight  up  this  way,  ma'am,"  said  the  woman. 
"  I'll  show  you  the  room." 

At  the  door,  Margaret  turned  back  and  glanced 
at  him. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  vaguely. 

"Good-night" 

When  the  woman  had  lit  the  fire  and  gone,  Mar- 
garet sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  gazed 
around  at  the  shabby  low-ceilinged  room.  And 
this  was  the  ending  of  the  day,  the  day  that  had 
begun  so  full  of  joyous  expectance.  It  seemed 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      231 

months  since  she  had  answered  the  telephone  in 
her  apartment  that  morning. 

She  lay  down  now  with  a  stupefied  sense  of 
weariness.  Her  eyes  ached  and  burned  behind 
their  sockets  —  even  the  muscles  of  her  face 
ached.  She  could  think  no  more  now.  The  im- 
perative need  for  sleep  was  mercifully  stronger 
than  everything  else. 

When  she  awoke,  the  lamp  had  burned  low 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  an  odour  of  burnt 
wick  and  coal-oil.  The  place  was  very  still  — 
the  stillness  of  a  late  hour.  She  went  over  to 
the  window  and  drew  up  the  halting  ragged 
shade.  There  was  no  moon;  the  blackness  was 
impenetrable  except  where  the  faint  light  from 
under  the  window  lay  in  a  pale  streak  across  the 
ground  and  the  wooden  walk  beneath. 

She  went  back  and  again  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed.  The  lamp  was  flickering  out  now, 
throwing  quivering  shadows  over  the  shabby  wall 
and  floor.  For  the  first  time  since  that  morning 
her  mind  seemed  clear  —  the  real  meaning  of  the 
day  came  to  her.  The  rapidity  of  incidents,  the 
emotional  stress,  her  hurt  pride  and  almost 
childish  indignation,  had,  until  now,  blinded  her 
to  the  real  horror  and  pity  of  it  all. 


232         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

She  saw  now,  in  his  drinking,  only  another  in- 
evitable result  of  the  torturing  strain  he  had  been 
under  so  long.  His  depression  had  been  growing 
for  weeks,  and  now  this  was  only  another  devel- 
opment. It  came  to  her,  as  it  never  had  before  — 
all  the  weakening,  wrecking  effects  of  their  love. 

The  immediate  cause  of  this  particular  inci- 
dent was  only  a  detail  —  the  night  before  made 
sleepless  by  the  reproaches  of  his  wife,  and  then 
the  trip  on  the  train  without  breakfast.  He  had 
probably  felt  the  need  of  more  strength  and  en- 
durance for  the  long  drive  before  them  and  had 
sought  to  throw  off  his  weariness  by  the  stimula- 
tion of  liquor.  That  its  effect  should  have  been 
so  pronounced  only  proved  its  use  was  not  hab- 
itual. She  had  never  before  noticed  the  slight- 
est trace  of  it  on  his  breath.  But  now  —  what 
would  the  future  hold?  Might  he  not  turn  again 
and  again  to  the  stimulating  effects  of  alcohol  as 
a  relief  from  the  almost  unendurable  conditions 
of  his  life? 

She  was  filled  with  an  uncontrollable  desire  to 
go  to  him,  to  put  her  arms  about  him,  to  shield 
him,  as  it  were,  from  the  horror  of  this  thing. 
All  her  bitter  resentment  was  forgotten  now  in 
a  great  sense  of  tenderness  and  pity. 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY      233 

Where  was  he?  He  was  somewhere  in  that 
still  house.  There  was  something  weird  and 
fearful  about  the  silence  and  that  flickering  lamp. 
She  opened  the  door  softly  and  listened.  There 
was  no  sound  except  her  own  creaking  step. 
Slowly  she  felt  her  way  along  the  black  narrow 
hall.  Her  groping  hand  found  the  bannister 
and  followed  it  down  the  steps. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  below  was  a  dim  smoking 
lamp.  The  door  of  the  front  room  was  partly 
open ;  the  gleaming  white  keys  of  the  organ  stood 
out  in  the  darkness  like  the  teeth  of  some  snarl- 
ing monster.  Her  heart  was  beating  fearfully. 
What  had  been  only  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
go  to  him,  now  became  almost  a  panic-stricken 
fear. 

An  overcoat  that  hung  from  a  rack  in  the  hall 
brushed  her  face  as  she  turned.  It  was  his  — 
even  in  the  dark  she  knew !  She  buried  her  face 
in  the  soft  satin  lining  —  it  seemed  to  envelope 
her,  to  fall  lovingly  around  her.  A  tremor  swept 
through  her  at  the  faint  fragrance  of  tobacco  that 
it  held.  Where  was  he?  Why  did  he  not  come 
to  her?  Was  he  in  there?  She  turned  the  knob 
noiselessly.  The  only  light  in  the  room  came 
from  the  open  door  of  the  stove,  but  it  shone 


234         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

directly  on  his  face  as  lie  leaned  back  in  a  large 
arm  chair. 

He  started  up,  throwing  his  cigar  in  the  fire. 
For  a  second  he  stood  there  uncertainly.  .  .  . 
Then  she  was  in  his  arms.  Who  had  made  the 
first  movement,  neither  of  them  knew.  It  was 
like  a  blinding  flash  of  light ;  when  it  had  passed 
he  was  again  in  the  chair  holding  her  in  his  arms, 
her  face  hid  against  his  shoulder  and  his  lips 
resting  on  her  hair.  The  room  was  again  in  still- 
ness except  for  the  faint  roaring  of  the  fire  in  the 
chimney  and  the  rattle  of  a  window  by  the  wind. 

The  sense  of  peace  and  contentment  and 
languor  that  came  from  the  strength  and  security 
of  his  arms  was  creeping  over  her  like  a  narcotic. 
Her  doubts  and  fears  of  a  few  moments  before 
for  the  time  were  silenced.  The  comfort  and 
assurance  of  his  love,  of  his  physical  strength  and 
presence,  were  with  her  again. 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  and  timidly  touched 
his  face  and  neck.  Even  the  feel  of  the  stiff  edge 
of  his  collar,  the  soft  silky  tie,  the  rough  cloth  of 
his  coat,  thrilled  her  with  a  sense  of  his  person- 
ality. 

Her  thoughts  drifted  dreamily  back  over  the 
first  months  of  their  wanderings,  the  crowded 


TRIP     TO     THE     COUNTRY     235 

east-side  streets,  the  shrill  cries  of  children,  the 
haunting  murmur  of  myriad  lives.  And  then 
came  memories  of  hours  by  the  sea-shore,  the 
glint  of  waves,  the  blue  of  summer  skies,  the 
distant  white  of  sails,  the  stretch  of  sandy  beach, 
the  hotels  gay  with  awnings  and  flags  and  bands. 

He  was  gazing  steadily  into  the  fire.  Was  his 
mind,  too,  filled  with  these  same  pictures?  Now 
and  then,  as  if  in  response  to  some  tender  thought 
or  memory,  his  arms  would  draw  her  closer. 

In  the  silence  and  tenderness  of  this  hour  she 
knew  ,they  were  nearer  together,  happier  than 
they  had  been  for  months.  If  she  could  only 
hold  those  moments,  keep  them  from  passing. 
But  even  then,  from  some  far-off  barnyard,  came 
the  faint  crow  of  a  cock,  a  melancholy  warning 
of  the  dawn,  the  morning  that  would  bring  back 
all  the  difficulties  and  estrangements  of  their  po- 
sition. She  clung  to  him  with  a  passionate  long- 
ing for  some  assurance  of  the  permanency  of  this 
hour,  yet  knowing  that  its  very  preciousness 
would  make  it  only  the  more  fleeting. 


XVII 
THE  WOMAN'S  ULTIMATE  DEMAND 

FOR  days  after  the  trip  in  the  country  he  was 
more  gentle,  more  thoughtful ;  he  seemed  to 
make  a  greater  effort  to  conquer  his  depression 
and  moodiness  than  ever  before.  He  had  divined 
her  fears  and  was  trying  to  quiet  them,  to  show 
her  that  the  incidents  of  the  trip  were  purely  an 
accident  and  one  that  would  not  be  repeated. 

For  this  assurance  Margaret  was  very  grateful. 
She  tried  to  accept  it  without  reservations;  but 
she  felt  that  a  crisis  had  been  reached.  More 
and  more  she  felt  the  impossibility  of  their  going 
on  much  longer  as  they  were.  For  the  first  time 
she  admitted  to  herself  that,  at  whatever  cost, 
she  wanted  him  to  give  up  everything  and  come 
to  her. 

She  had  gradually  withdrawn  from  all  social 
life,  living  only  for  the  few  hours  he  could  be 
with  her,  and,  in  the  intervals  between,  for  his 
notes  and  telephone  messages.  Much  of  the  time 
she  was  ill,  ill  with  a  feverish  unrest,  with  the 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      237 

wearing  strain  of  their  relations,  with  constant 
fruitless  brooding. 

As  he  saw  her  health  and  courage  failing,  he 
did  what  he  could  to  cheer  and  comfort  her.  He 
was  with  her  as  often  as  possible  and  wrote  and 
telephoned  her  constantly.  But  he  did  it  at  the 
expense  of  his  work  and  peace  at  home. 

With  a  feverish  anxiety  Margaret  now  began 
to  want  some  definite  assurance  for  the  future, 
some  definite  promise  that  sooner  or  later  he 
would  secure  his  freedom  and  be  with  her  always. 
But  this  assurance  he  could  not  give. 

He  knew  that  unconsciously  she  was  now  blam- 
ing him  for  the  very  things  he  had  at  the  begin- 
ning feared  that  she  would  —  for  the  absorption 
of  her  youth  and  love  when  he  could  give  so  little 
in  return.  He  had  told  her  then  that  he  was 
hopelessly  bound,  and  that  he  saw  no  way  out. 
But  then  she  had  felt  that  she  would  be  content 
and  happy  with  just  his  love.  And  now  she  was 
not  content.  She  wanted  more  —  a  great  deal 
more  She  wanted  all  that  he  had  said  he  could 
not  give,  all  that  every  natural  woman  wants  of 
the  man  she  loves  —  that  he  should  make  her  his 
wife  and  shield  and  care  for  her  in  the  security 
of  a  home. 


238         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

It  was  the  woman's  inevitable  demand  for  the 
whole  of  the  man.  She  can  only  delude  herself 
for  a  time  that  she  will  be  satisfied  with  less. 

With  Margaret  that  time  had  now  passed.  He 
knew  that  her  demand  would  come  soon,  that  she 
could  not  much  longer  crush  it  down.  And  he 
realised  his  utter  inability  to  meet  it. 

It  came  one  afternoon  when  he  found  her  in  a 
mood  of  unusual  agitation  brought  on  by  sleep- 
less nights  and  incessant  brooding.  She  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears,  sobbing  out  that  she  did 
not  have  the  courage  to  go  on  alone  any  longer. 

"  I've  tried  —  oh,  you  don't  know  how  I've 
tried!  But  I  haven't  the  strength  or  the  cour- 
age. You  must  do  something  to  help  me  —  I 
can't  bear  it  any  longer.  Oh,  I  can't  —  I  can't!  " 

Before  this  passionate  outbreak  he  stood  help- 
lessly silent. 

At  length  he  asked  brokenly,  "  What  can  I  do, 
Margaret?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"  Give  up  everything  and  come  to  me !  It  is 
the  only  way,"  she  sobbed. 

"  How  can  I  leave  her  now?  I  cannot  leave 
her  penniless." 

"  And  you  put  money  before  my  happiness." 

"  I  must  —  the  money  I  owe  her." 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      239 

"  But  it  isn't  as  if  it  was  really  her  money  — 
it's  only  money  that  you  made  and  gave  her." 

"  You  know  how  I  feel  about  that.  It  was  her 
share  of  my  income ;  I  can  never  think  of  it  differ- 
ently." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  despairingly.  "  I  know  you 
are  right ;  I  could  not  want  you  to  feel  otherwise. 
But  when  you've  made  that  back  —  when  all  that 
is  straightened  out —  Oh,  if  I  could  only  have 
something  to  look  forward  to  —  something  defi- 
nite to  hold  to !  " 

"  Don't,  Margaret,  don't  force  me  to  make  any 
definite  promise  that  I'll  leave  her.  I'd  feel  even 
more  contemptible  than  I  do  now,  knowing  that 
I'd  deliberately  pledged  myself  to  sacrifice  her. 
If  the  time  comes  when  we  are  swept  off  our 
feet  .  .  .  But  to  plan  it  in  this  deliberate,  cold- 
blooded way!  You  promised  once  to  help  me 
protect  her  —  to  be  content  with  just  my  love  — 
never  to  ask  this  of  me." 

"  I  know  —  I  know  I  did,"  she  moaned.  "  And 
I  meant  it  —  I  was  stronger  then.  But  now  — 
now  I  have  no  strength  left." 

"  Then  don't  try  to  weaken  me,  Margaret.  Let 
me  keep  what  little  I  still  have." 

For  several  moments  he  gazed  moodily  before 


240         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

him,  then  suddenly  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  It  looks  so  black  —  so  hopeless !  " 

His  voice,  the  droop  of  his  shoulders,  his  bowed 
head,  stirred  something  deep  in  Margaret's  heart. 
She  saw  the  greyness  around  his  temples.  It 
had  not  been  there  two  years  ago,  and  now  —  it 
whitened  daily.  A  lump  rose  in  her  throat. 
She  went  over  and  knelt  beside  him.  He  did  not 
move ;  it  was  some  time  before  she  spoke. 

"  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  more  patient  and  not 
worry  you  so!  Oh,  I'll  try,  dear  —  I  will!" 

"  It  isn't  that  —  you  do  try.  I  know  you  do. 
And  I  suppose  you  can't  help  it  when  you  break 
down.  I  know  how  hard  it  must  be  for  you  — 
but  what  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  f  " 

He  rose  abruptly  and  put  her  from  him  almost 
roughly.  "  Let's  not  talk  about  it.  It  never 
helps,  it  only  makes  it  harder  for  us  both." 

He  walked  nervously  up  and  down  the  room 
and  then  paused  by  a  table  and  picked  up  a  mag- 
azine. 

"  I  can  only  stay  a  little  while.  Let  me  read 
to  you  —  it  will  be  better  than  this  hopeless  dis- 
cussion." He  was  turning  through  the  maga- 
zine. "  Don't  you  want  to  lie  here  on  the 
couch?  "  He  drew  up  a  low  chair  beside  her. 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      241 

Margaret  knew  that  she  would  be  unable  to  fix 
her  mind  on  anything  he  might  read,  but  she 
leaned  back  obediently  among  the  pillows.  He 
was  still  turning  absently  through  the  magazine. 
Then  she  saw  him  start,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  page. 
Abruptly  he  closed  the  magazine  and  picked  up 
another. 

"Here  is  the  last  's,"  his  voice  was  not 

quite  natural.  "  There'll  probably  be  something 
in  this." 

But  Margaret  had  started  up  nervously. 
"  What  was  it  you  saw  in  that  other  magazine  — 
why  did  you  drop  it  so  suddenly?  " 

"  There's  nothing  in  it  —  it's  simply  a  number 
I've  read." 

But  she  had  crossed  over  to  the  table,  picked 
up  the  magazine  and  was  searching  through  the 
table  of  contents. 

"  Listen,  Margaret,  I  can  stay  only  a  few  mo- 
ments. We  don't  want  to  spend  them  in  any 
more  discussions  —  it'll  only  make  us  both  more 
wretched." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  A  swift  glance 
down  the  table  of  contents  had  revealed  nothing, 
and  now  she  was  sweeping  through  the  maga- 
zine. Suddenly  a  paragraph  stood  out. 


242         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"...  if  another  woman  should  ever  become  more  neces- 
sary to  his  happiness  —  she  had  always  said  she  would  give 
him  up.  Now,  after  twelve  years,  the  test  had  come.  Was 
she  strong  enough?  Could  she  do  this  thing  —  give  him  to 
another  woman?  .  .  .  love,  real  love,  meant  the  happiness  of 
the  one  loved  .  .  .  give  up  her  home  .  .  .  each  chair  seemed 
a  part  of  her  ...  go  away  alone  .  .  .  rest  of  her  life 
alone  .  .  ." 

On  the  opposite  page  was  a  picture  of  a  middle- 
aged  woman  stooping  over  a  trunk,  the  room  in 
the  confusion  of  packing.  Underneath  were  the 
words,  "  She  would  take  only  this  old  smoking 
jacket  —  that  much  of  him  she  would  carry 
away." 

Margaret  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his. 

"It  is  this!" 

He  did  not  answer. 

She  swept  back  to  the  first  page  —  the  second 
—  the  third.  In  a  moment,  with  her  marvellous 
ability  for  tearing  the  heart  from  a  story  almost 
at  a  glance,  she  had  grasped  it  all. 

"What  has  happened?  It's  something  more 
than  merely  your  reading  this  —  she  must 
have  — " 

"  She  read  it  to  me,"  tensely. 

"She  read  it  to  you?" 

"  She  came  down  to  the  library  one  evening 
and  asked  if  I  had  time  to  listen  to  a  short  story. 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      243 

Then  she  read  me  that.  When  she  had  finished, 
she  laid  the  magazine  on  the  arm  of  my  chair 
and  went  upstairs  again.  She  made  no  com- 
ment on  it  whatever  —  her  silence  was  stronger 
than  any  comment." 

Margaret  was  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands.  "Oh,  it  must  be  horrible.  I  think 
I  begin  to  realise  now  just  how  horrible 
your  life  must  be.  She's  always  with  you  —  a 
constant  living  reproach,  making  you  feel  in  a 
thousand  ways  the  strength  of  her  claim.  Oh,  I 
can  imagine  the  allusions  and  references !  I  can 
imagine  her  referring  with  pretended  careless- 
ness to  some  notorious  divorce  where  the  man 
leaves  his  wife  for  an  actress  or  chorus  girl. 
Every  newspaper  now  is  full  of  loathsome  ac- 
counts of  infidelities,  of  scandals,  and  divorce. 
All  that  is  in  her  favour.  I've  never  spoken  of  it 
before  —  I  shrank  from  referring  to  it  in  any 
way.  But  you  must  have  felt  it,  too  —  the  deg- 
radation of  it  all!  It  seems —  Oh,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it !  " 

"  I've  felt  it  all,  Margaret,  but  I  hoped  you 
had  escaped  —  that  it  had  not  affected  you  in 
the  same  way.  That's  why  I've  never  spoken  to 
you  about  it." 


244         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  How  could  I  escape?  I  can  never  pick  up  a 
paper  without  being  confronted  by  some  glaring 
hideous  travesty  of  love  —  and  I  throw  it  down 
with  a  fierce  hope  that  you've  not  seen  it  too. 
I've  tried  not  to  see  those  things  —  tried  not  to 
read  them.  But  there  are  times  —  oh,  I  hardly 
know  how  to  explain  it  —  when  they've  a  sort  of 
horrible  fascination  for  me.  The  Wenford  case 
—  you  remember  that?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  For  days  I  followed  it  —  I  hated  and  loathed 
myself  — but  I  couldn't  help  it!" 

"  I  know,  dear,  I  think  I  understand.  I've 
had  something  of  that,  too.  It's  only  that  we're 
morbid,  that  we've  brooded  over  all  this  too 
much.  It's  only  another  result  of  the  unnatural- 
ness  of  our  lives." 

When  he  was  leaving,  he  picked  up  the  maga- 
zine. 

"I  want  to  take  this  with  me,  Margaret;  I 
don't  like  to  think  of  your  reading  it  now." 

"  I  might  as  well  read  it  as  to  lie  awake  all 
night  wondering  what  is  in  it  —  imagining  much 
more  than  it  could  possibly  contain." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so."  He  laid  the  book  back 
with  a  sigh. 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      245 

That  night  Margaret  read  the  story  again  and 
again  with  a  feverish  intensity.  It  was  by  a 
well-known  writer  of  short  stories,  and  was  writ- 
ten with  unusual  skill. 

The  theme  was  in  no  way  new  or  original,  and 
there  was  no  attempt  to  make  it  so.  It  was  sim- 
ply, but  strongly  written.  It  was  the  story  of  a 
woman  past  middle  age,  who,  after  twelve  tran- 
quil years  with  her  husband,  discovers  that  he 
loves  another  woman,  and  that  for  her  sake  he  is 
fighting  against  it  and  trying  to  crush  it  out. 

Many  times  during  those  years  she  had  said 
proudly,  in  the  security  of  his  love,  that  if  it  ever 
ceased  to  be  love,  that  if  another  woman  ever 
took  her  place  in  his  heart,  she  would  want  him 
to  have  her.  She  would  go  away  —  she  would 
give  him  up. 

The  scene  in  which  the  wife  finally  decides  to 
live  up  to  this,  now  that  the  test  has  come,  was 
very  strong.  The  description  of  her  packing  was 
vividly  real  —  of  her  going  over  the  house,  taking 
good-bye  of  each  room,  each  piece  of  furniture 
which  from  all  these  years  of  possession  had  be- 
come a  part  of  her.  All  these  she  would  leave, 
she  would  take  only  her  personal  clothing,  noth- 
ing of  his  except  the  old  smoking  jacket  She 


246         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

had  told  herself  that  she  would  take  one  —  just 
one  thing  that  belonged  to  him.  And  after  a 
heart-breaking  hour  in  his  room  she  catches  up  a 
worn  smoking  jacket  and  buries  her  face  against 
it.  If  only  it  would  hold  always  that  odour  of 
tobacco!  If  she  might  always  have  something 
that  would  bring  him  back  to  her  so  vividly. 
She  gathers  up  a  handful  of  cigars  from  a  box 
on  the  table  and  slips  them  into  the  coat  pocket. 
In  the  loneliness  of  the  years  to  come,  she  will 
bury  her  face  in  that  coat  and  it  will  still  have 
that  odour  —  it  will  still  seem  almost  as  though 
his  arms  were  around  her. 

She  packs  the  coat  in  the  bottom  of  her  trunk 
with  all  his  photographs  that  she  had  gathered 
from  all  over  the  house.  These  at  least  belong  to 
her,  she  tells  herself  passionately,  for  they  were 
taken  when  he  belonged  to  her.  All  of  her  pic- 
tures she  takes  —  all  except  one,  and  that,  after 
a  struggle  she  leaves.  It  is  an  old-fashioned  pic- 
ture of  a  young  girl  in  a  muslin  gown,  taken 
when  they  were  engaged.  The  woman  he  loves 
now  could  not  be  fairer  than  she  was  then !  She 
glances  at  her  poor  lined  face  in  the  mirror.  Oh, 
what  a  pitiless  thing  is  age  to  a  woman  —  age 
that  fades  and  withers.  It  is  because  of  this 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      247 

that  her  husband  now  loves  a  younger,  fresher 
face. 

The  story  ends  with  a  dramatic,  almost  a  melo- 
dramatic, incident,  which  brings  out  the  light, 
frivolous,  selfish  nature  of  the  other  woman,  and 
brings  to  the  man  a  consciousness  that  his  love 
for  her  is  only  an  infatuation.  He  follows  his 
wife  and  brings  her  back  to  their  home  with  a 
deeper  realisation  of  his  need  of  her. 

For  days  this  story  haunted  Margaret.  She 
tried  to  escape  it  —  to  put  it  aside.  But  the  pic- 
ture of  the  middle-aged  woman  stooping  over  the 
trunk  was  always  before  her.  All  her  former 
ideas  and  conceptions  of  his  wife  now  seemed  to 
fade  away,  and  in  her  mind  it  was  that  woman  by 
the  trunk  who  was  his  wife.  Again  and  again 
she  pictured  her  going  through  the  house,  taking 
leave  of  all  the  things  that  had  made  up  her  life 
for  so  long. 

With  her  vivid,  persistent  imagination,  she 
lived  through  what  this  woman  must  have  suf- 
fered in  the  past  two  years,  with  the  ever-increas- 
ing fear  that  she  was  losing  her  husband,  that  he 
was  growing  away  from  her,  and  that  she  no 
longer  had  youth  or  beauty  with  which  to  hold 
Mm. 


248         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

For  the  first  time  Margaret  realised  the  full 
strength  of  his  wife's  claim  —  the  claim  of  all 
those  years.  She  understood,  as  never  before,  his 
efforts  to  shield  her;  and  something  of  what  he 
felt  when  he  said  "  How  can  I  leave  her  —  a 
woman  with  whom  I  have  lived  for  fifteen  years, 
a  good  woman  who  is  dependent  on  me  for  her 
happiness  ?  " 

She  would  help  him  shield  her,  she  would  crush 
out  all  bitterness  and  jealousy,  she  would  ac- 
knowledge and  respect  this  woman's  claim.  She 
remembered  with  a  fervid  sense  of  gratitude  that 
he  had  said  a  few  days  ago :  "  She  is  more  con- 
tent now  than  she  had  been  for  months,  for  she 
feels  that  I  no  longer  see  you." 

She  would  do  nothing  to  disturb  this  content- 
ment, she  would  be  satisfied  with  less  than  she 
had  ever  had,  would  see  him  less,  take  less  of  his 
time. 

And  all  this  she  did  to  silence  something  within 
her,  something  before  which  she  blanched  and 
quivered,  something  that  said  there  was  only  one 
way,  only  one  thing  that  was  right  —  to  go  away 
—  to  give  him  up  altogether.  Desperately  she 
strove  to  crush  out  this  thought,  to  appease  it  by 
any  other  sacrifice. 


THE     ULTIMATE     DEMAND      249 

All  the  ways  in  which  she  had  justified  her 
position  in  these  two  years  seemed  painfully  in- 
adequate now.  Her  vindications  seemed  the  shal- 
lowest sophistries.  She  tried  to  strengthen  them, 
to  reassure  herself,  to  get  back  some  of  her  old 
beliefs  and  convictions ;  but  now  they  eluded  her. 
Everything  seemed  slipping  away.  The  strong- 
hold of  her  defence  had  at  last  been  assailed. 


XVIII 
DESPERATION 

THE  change  in  Margaret's  attitude  was  very 
marked.  She  was  now  very  patient  and 
uncomplaining.  She  seemed  no  longer  to  rebel 
at  her  position ;  the  feverish  discontent  was  sud- 
denly arrested.  In  many  ways  she  made  him  feel 
the  lessening  of  her  demands. 

But  her  heart  contracted  with  pain  when  she 
saw  with  what  relief  he  accepted  this  change,  how 
quickly  he  availed  himself  of  his  greater  freedom, 
with  what  readiness  he  acquiesced  in  any  sugges- 
tion from  her  that  he  should  be  with  her  less,  that 
he  should  give  more  time  to  his  work. 

She  had  once  seen  a  play,  a  powerful  play,  in 
which  the  problem  dealt  with  was  the  triangle, 
and  in  which  the  man's  love  for  the  woman  who 
was  not  his  wife  had  ceased,  but  he  felt  himself 
forced  to  keep  up  the  pretence  to  her,  just 
as  he  tried  to  keep  it  up  with  his  wife. 
In  some  ways  he  felt  his  duty  and  obligation  to 


DESPERATION 


this  other  woman  more  strongly  than  if  their  tie 
had  been  a  legal  one,  that  he  owed  it  to  her  to 
keep  up  the  pretence  even  more  than  he  owed  it  to 
his  wife.  There  were  many  things  beside  love 
that  he  gave  his  wife  —  the  prestige  and  protec 
tion  of  his  name,  the  security  of  his  home.  But 
all  he  could  give  this  other  woman  was  love  — 
she  had  sacrificed  everything  for  that.  Could  he 
take  it  from  her  now? 

At  the  time,  the  play  had  made  upon  Margaret 
a  strong  impression,  and  now  came  the  thought 
that  Graham's  love  might  too  have  become  a  pre- 
tence, a  pretence  laboriously  kept  up  through  a 
chivalrous  sense  of  loyalty.  But  this  thought 
was  only  fleeting;  her  assurance  in  the  strength 
and  permanency  of  his  love  was  too  deeply  rooted 
to  be  suddenly  shaken.  Yet  .some  tendrils  of 
such  a  fear  had  fastened  themselves  around  her 
heart;  she  could  not  tear  them  all  away.  Now 
and  then  she  would  feel  their  grip  as  she  saw  some 
new  proof  of  his  willingness  to  remain  away  —  to 
see  her  less  and  less. 

"  It's  only  because  of  his  work  —  because  he's 
neglected  it  for  so  long,"  she  would  tell  herself 
with  a  passionate  conviction.  And  yet  —  again 
and  again  she  felt  the  clutch  of  that  fearful  doubt. 


252         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

With  a  stronger  self-control  than  she  had  ever 
before  exerted,  she  allowed  these  doubts  and  fears 
no  outward  expression ;  she  refrained  from  mak- 
ing any  "  tests  "  of  his  love,  a  thing  a  few  weeks 
ago  she  would  have  done  with  hysterical  fre- 
quency. 

Kepeatedly  she  told  herself  that  she  must  not 
allow  anything  to  weaken  her  resolutions  —  the 
picture  of  that  woman  by  the  trunk  was  still  very 
vivid,  the  realisation  of  her  claim  was  still  very 
strong.  And  there  was  beside  the  feeling  that 
the  anguish  she  felt  whenever  this  thought  of  his 
waning  love  possessed  her,  was  only  a  little  of 
what  his  wife  must  have  felt  as  for  months  she 
had  watched  him  growing  away  from  her. 

This  forced  repression,  this  constant  eating 
out  of  her  heart  alone  was  even  worse  for  Mar- 
garet's health  than  it  had  been  when  she  gave 
vent  to  her  emotions,  when  she  sobbed  out  her 
unhappiness  in  his  arms.  Her  mirror  reflected 
a  face  that  was  becoming  daily  more  wan  and 
colourless  —  yet  he  did  not  seem  to  see  it.  She 
was  ever  torturing  herself  with  the  thought  that 
if  he  loved  her  —  could  he  be  so  indifferent  to 
her  health? 

Over  a  month  had  passed  in  this  way,  when 


DESPERATION  253 

something  happened  that  broke  down  her  self- 
control,  shattered  her  resolutions  and  brought 
back  all  the  old  feeling  of  bitterness  and  re- 
volt. 

It  had  been  four  days  since  she  had  seen  him, 
and  to-night  he  was  to  take  her  to  dinner.  They 
had  not  dined  together  for  several  weeks,  and 
now  she  looked  forward  to  it  with  eager  long- 
ing and  with  the  hope  that  it  might  bring  them 
nearer.  She  reached  the  elevated  station,  where 
they  were  to  meet,  a  few  moments  early.  She 
waited  at  the  far  end  of  the  platform,  looking 
down  on  the  crowded  street. 

Then  she  became  conscious  that  a  man  was 
walking  back  and  forth  staring  at  her  steadily. 
Annoyed,  she  moved  nearer  the  railing.  But  he 
continued  to  walk  by,  passing  so  near  that  he 
brushed  her  dress,  and  tapping  his  cane  lightly 
on  the  ground.  A  train  drew  up,  but  he  made 
no  effort  to  take  it,  and  Margaret  realised  that 
he  might  think  her  own  waiting  was  to  encourage 
him.  Another  train  passed  and  as  Margaret 
still  waited,  he  thought  his  conquest  was  com- 
plete. He  stepped  to  her  side,  raised  his  hat 
and  said  "Good  evening." 

Without  glancing  toward  him,  Margaret  swept 


254         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

past,  back  into  the  waiting  room.  Her  face 
was  crimson  and  her  breath  came  fast.  Her 
fierce  indignation  was  not  only  against  the  man 
who  had  spoken  to  her,  but  also  against  the  one 
for  whom  she  was  waiting,  who  allowed  her  to 
meet  him  at  elevated  and  subway  stations,  thus 
exposing  her  to  the  possibility  of  such  insults. 

At  first  he  had  been  very  reluctant  to  have 
her  meet  him  in  this  way,  but  lately  he  had  come 
to  take  it  for  granted.  Had  she  made  a  mis- 
take? In  her  eagerness  to  make  things  less  dif- 
ficult, she  had  protested  that  she  was  willing  to 
meet  him  anywhere,  that,  as  she  understood  the 
need,  she  would  not  feel  the  humiliation.  But 
after  all  does  not  a  woman  cheapen  herself  by 
any  concession  of  this  kind?  Would  he  not, 
perhaps,  have  valued  her  more  if  she  had  made 
him  feel  that  she  could  not  do  this  —  if  she  had 
held  herself  more  aloof?  The  very  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  seeing  her  would  have  made  him 
only  the  more  determined  to  overcome  them. 

At  that  moment  she  felt  keenly  the  humilia- 
tion not  only  of  her  willingness  to  meet  him  in 
this  way,  but  of  many  other  concessions  that  she 
had  made  to  facilitate  their  being  together  — 
to  make  it  less  difficult  for  him.  It  seemed  to 


DESPERATION  255 

her  now  that  she  had  tried  to  smooth  the  way 
by  countless  concessions  of  her  pride  and  re- 
serve. And  how  serenely  he  had  come  to  ac- 
cept these  concessions  —  with  how  few  protests ! 

Just  then,  through  the  open  door  that  led  out 
to  the  platform,  she  saw  him  step  from  the  train. 
He  looked  up  and  down  the  platform,  glancing 
at  his  watch,  and  finally  saw  her  through  the 
door. 

She  told  him  at  once  of  the  incident  —  of  the 
insolent  confidence  with  which  the  man  had 
spoken  to  her.  She  made  no  attempt  to  conceal 
her  agitation  or  her  bitterness.  But  even  as  he 
expressed  his  regret  that  it  should  have  hap- 
pened, and  said  they  must  find  some  way  of  meet- 
ing that  she  would  not  be  so  exposed,  she  was 
conscious  of  the  most  poignant  disappointment. 
There  was  something  lacking  in  his  concern.  It 
was,  of  course,  not  quite  perfunctory,  but  it  did 
not  ring  with  the  tense  solicitude  that  he  would 
have  felt  a  year  ago. 

All  through  the  dinner  it  seemed  to  Margaret 
that  he  was  farther  from  her  than  ever  before. 
It  had  been  four  days  since  he  had  seen  her,  and 
yet  he  had  nothing,  almost  nothing,  to  say. 
Part  of  the  time  he  seemed  preoccupied,  almost 


256         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

to  absent-mindedness ;  and  again  it  was  as  though 
he  were  making  an  effort  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion confined  to  the  commonplace,  to  avoid  any- 
thing that  might  lead  to  personalities. 

Margaret  herself  felt  too  heartsick,  too  bitterly 
disappointed,  to  make  any  effort  to  keep  up  even 
a  pretence  at  conversation.  She  merely  toyed 
with  the  food  before  her;  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  swallow  past  the  lump  in  her  throat. 
But  he  failed  to  notice  that  she  did  not  eat. 
The  waiter  removed  her  plates  almost  un- 
touched, but  still  he  did  not  notice. 

There  had  been  a  long  silence,  when  suddenly 
he  leaned  forward  and  said  quietly,  a  slow,  low- 
voiced  quietness  which  with  him  always  meant 
suppression. 

"  Margaret,  I'm  going  to  ask  something  of 
you.  I  hope  you'll  not  press  me  for  the  reason 
and  that  you'll  believe  that  it  is  as  much  for 
your  sake  as  for  —  any  one  else !  " 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  A  short 
pause,  then  he  said  abruptly, 

"  Will  you  go  out  of  the  city  for  a  few  days? 
Some  nearby  resort  —  any  place  where  you'll  be 
comfortable?  " 


DESPERATION  257 

He  was  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  but  she  only 
gazed  at  him.  Still  he  waited. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand."  Her  lips  were 
colourless. 

"No.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  tell  you  the 
reason."  He  paused.  "Lately  we've  not  dis- 
cussed these  things,  and  you've  seemed  less 
feverishly  discontented,  more  reconciled.  That's 
why  I'm  loath  to  bring  up  anything  that  may 
agitate  you  now.  And  yet  I  cannot  ask  this  of 
you  without  giving  you  the  reason.  It's  to  save 
you  from  a  painful  meeting  with  —  Mrs.  Whit- 
man. She  is  coming  to  see  you." 

"Coming  to  see  me!" 

"  I'm  afraid  so." 

"  What  do  you  mean?    What  has  happened?  " 

"  I  shall  not  go  into  details,  Margaret.  I  can 
only  say  that  she  has  found  out  I  still  see  you, 
and  is  taking  this  last  desperate  means  to  sep- 
arate us." 

"  Oh,  would  she  do  a  thing  so  —  undignified?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  And  you  want  me  to  go  away  to  prevent  it?  " 

"  I  think  it  will  be  best." 

"  Best  for  her! "  passionately.    "  You're  afraid 


258         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

for  her  to  see  me  —  afraid  I'll  tell  her  the  truth! 
It's  she  you're  always  trying  to  shield  —  it's  al- 
ways she ! " 

"It's  both  of  you.  Do  you  realise  what  it 
would  mean  if  she  should  come?  Could  you  ever 
forget  it?  Can't  you  see  I'm  trying  to  save  you 
that? » 

There  flashed  before  Margaret  the  possibility 
of  what  it  would  mean  —  of  the  horror  of  meet- 
ing this  woman.  What  would  it  be*  like? 
Would  she  come  to  denounce,  to  threaten  or  to 
implore  —  to  plead  with  her  to  give  up  this  man 
who  was  her  husband?  Her  mind  was  filled  with 
scenes  —  detailed,  vivid,  harrowing  scenes. 

She  was  gazing  down  in  her  lap,  alternately 
crushing  and  straining  at  the  napkin  that  lay 
there. 

"How  —  how  did  this  happen?  We've  been 
together  so  little  —  less  than  ever  before  —  why 
should  this  happen  now?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  wouldn't  go  into  details,  Mar- 
garet. It  never  helps.  I've  done  far  too  much 
of  that  in  the  past.  It's  enough  that  she  should 
suffer  without  my  describing  her  suffering  to 
you." 


DESPERATION  259 

It  seemed  to  Margaret  that  with  every  word 
he  was  drawing  farther  away  from  her.  She 
was  filled  with  a  cold  desolation,  a  sense  of 
standing  alone  —  more  alone  than  she  had  ever 
stood  before. 

"  I've  asked  this  of  you,  Margaret,  only  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  save  you  both  from  something 
that  could  only  be  most  harrowing.  You  may 
think  it  not  necessary  to  go  out  of  town  —  that 
you  could  merely  refuse  to  see  any  one  that  might 
call.  But  there's  the  possibility  that  in  some 
way  she  might  elude  the  bell  boys  and  come  di- 
rect to  your  rooms.  However,  I  shall  not  try  to 
persuade  you.  Now  that  you  know,  you  must 
do  as  you  think  best." 

"  And  when  do  you  want  me  to  go?  "  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  If  you  go  at  all,  it  should  be  at  once  —  in 
the  morning." 

"Very  well.  I'll  go."  It  was  hardly  more 
than  a  whisper. 

He  started  to  speak,  and  then  paused  as  the 
waiter  came  up  to  remove  their  plates.  Mar- 
garet gazed  down  the  long  cafe".  The  mirrors, 
the  lights,  the  gay  groups  of  people  —  it  all 


260          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

seemed  to  blur  before  her,  the  whole  scene 
seemed  unreal  and  far  away,  as  though  she  were 
gazing  at  it  from  some  great  distance. 

"  If  I  could  help  you  more  in  this,  I  would. 
But  there  are  circumstances,  which  I  would 
rather  not  discuss,  that  make  it  impossible." 

In  silent  acquiescence  Margaret  made  the 
slightest  inclination  of  her  head.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  pale  yellow  wine  in  her  glass;  then 
she  raised  it  and  drank  it  all.  And  when  a  few 
moments  later  the  waiter  refilled  the  glass,  she 
drained  it  again. 

When  they  rose  from  the  table,  she  saw  him 
glance  at  his  watch. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  it  will  be  impossible 
now  for  me  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  evening  with 
you.  I  can  only  take  you  home." 

Again  she  only  nodded. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  almost  to  her  apart- 
ment that  she  realised  all  that  his  silence  meant. 
He  was  going  to  leave  her  like  this  —  without 
planning  or  even  asking  where  she  was  to  go  — 
without  saying  that  in  a  few  days  he  would  come 
after  her.  He  was  leaving  her  without  her  even 
knowing  when  or  where  she  would  see  him 
again! 


DESPERATION  261 

She  clenched  her  hands  and  pressed  her  hot 
face  against  the  cool  glass  of  the  cab  window. 
It  was  a  familiar  street  they  were  passing,  a 
street  through  which  they  had  often  wandered. 
That  quaint  chop  house  on  the  corner  —  how 
vividly  came  back  a  cold,  snowy  night  when  they 
had  stopped  there  for  a  steaming  hot  punch. 
He  had  drawn  off  her  gloves  tenderly  and  chafed 
her  hands,  not  only  because  they  were  cold  but 
because  he  wanted  to  hold  them.  And  that 
square  with  the  lights  shining  through  the  dark 
trees  —  how  often  they  had  walked  through 
there.  And  now  —  now  he  was  sitting  beside 
her  with  a  cold  remoteness  that  was  terrifying. 

No  —  no,  he  could  not  leave  her  like  this! 
He  was  waiting  until  the  last  moment,  until  they 
were  almost  to  her  door,  but  then  he  would  make 
some  plan,  he  would  advise  her  where  to  go  —  he 
would  say  that  he  would  come  after  her. 

A  dark  church  spire  loomed  before  them  — 
just  three  more  squares!  She  caught  her 
breath  —  two  more  —  one  more!  And  still  he 
was*  silent !  The  cab  drew  up.  He  helped  her 
out.  Motioning  the  cabman  to  wait,  he  walked 
with  her  up  the  steps. 

"  There's  nothing  I  can  say  to-night,  Margaret, 


262          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

that  would  help  either  of  us.  I  don't  know 
when  I  can  see  you.  It  will  be  harder  now  than 
ever  before.  You'll  have  to  be  patient  —  there 
is  no  other  way.  I'll  see  you  as  soon  as  I  can 
after  you  return.  Under  the  circumstances,  it 
would  be  better  if  you  did  not  write,  but  if  you 
do,  have  the  envelope  typewritten  and  address 
it  to  the  office." 

A  brief  good-bye  and  he  was  gone. 

Crouched  on  the  floor  by  the  window,  Mar- 
garet had  not  moved  since  she  entered  her  rooms. 
The  place  was  dark ;  she  had  not  waited  to  turn 
on  the  lights  as  she  rushed  to  the  window  for  a 
last  straining  glance  after  his  cab.  She  had 
not  even  removed  her  hat,  and  yet  an  hour  had 


An  hour  in  which  all  the  resolutions,  all  the 
self-control  of  the  last  few  weeks  were  swept 
aside.  There  alone  in  the  dark,  with  no  sound 
in  the  room  except  her  own  convulsive  sobs,  she 
told  herself  passionately  that  because  she  had 
tried,  because  she  had  made  every  effort  to  help 
him,  to  demand  less  and  less,  to  force  down  her 
own  heartaches  and  think  of  those  of  his  wife  — 
this  was  the  result.  He  was  letting  the  burden 


DESPERATION 


of  this  exigency  fall  upon  her  alone  —  he  was 
sending  her  away  from  him  like  this ! 

What  was  it  that  had  happened?  In  the  con- 
fused misery  of  her  mind,  that  question  beat  un- 
ceasingly. What  could  have  reawakened  his 
wife's  suspicions  —  aroused  in  her  such  a  des- 
perate resolve  and  made  him  so  cold  and  bitter? 
Instinctively  she  felt  that  whatever  it  was,  he 
thought  it  was  her  fault  —  that  was  why  he  had 
been  so  hard.  What  was  it?  What  did  he  think 
she  had  done?  For  what  cruel  mistake  was  she 
to  suffer? 

And  then  in  a  flash  she  knew  —  it  was  her 
story!  Her  story!  After  all  this  time  —  his 
wife  had  at  last  found  the  magazine!  She 
felt  herself  in  the  grip  of  a  relentless  inexorable 
fate. 

If  it  had  come  before,  when  his  love  was  un- 
wavering —  but  now,  now  when  she  felt  he  was 
growing  away  from  her !  This  had  come  now  to 
further  estrange  them  —  to  weaken  his  faith  in 
her  and  strengthen  his  pity  for  his  wife!  Oh, 
it  was  fate  —  fate  —  a  pitiless  fate ! 

She  rose,  stumbling  across  the  room  to  turn 
on  the  lights;  the  darkness  had  suddenly  be- 


264          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

come  intolerable  —  it  filled  her  now  with  a  sort 
of  terror.  Her  foot  caught  on  a  small  stool 
that  lay  in  the  way;  she  fell,  striking  her  fore- 
head sharply  on  the  arm  of  a  chair.  For  a 
moment  she  lay  stunned,  then  rose  blindly  to 
her  feet,  the  pain  in  her  head  adding  to  the  un- 
reasoning sense  of  fright. 

The  days  that  must  pass  before  she  could  see 
him!  The  long  hours  she  must  spend  alone  — 
the  fearful  anguished  hours,  every  moment  filled 
with  torturing  thoughts  and  doubts.  She  could 
not  live  through  those  days !  He  must  help  her ! 
She  must  see  him  again  —  now!  He  must  help 
her! 

Desperately,  and  yet  with  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing was  clutching  at  her,  holding  her  back, 
she  rushed  to  the  'phone.  No  —  no,  she  could 
not  call  up  from  here  —  the  girl  at  the  switch- 
board down-stairs  was  always  listening.  She 
must  go  to  some  outside  'phone  where  she  was 
not  known. 

Margaret  seemed  now  to  be  swept  along  by 
some  irresistible  force  outside  herself.  Already 
she  was  in  the  hall,  down  the  elevator  and  out 
into  the  street. 

The  telephone  at  the  corner  drug  store  was 


DESPERATION  265 

on  a  stand  by  the  door.  There  was  no  booth 
and  the  clerk  would  hear  everything  that  was 
said.  But  she  knew  of  no  other  place  near,  and 
her  desire  to  reach  him  at  once  was  now  an  ob- 
session. 

For  all  these  months  she  had  been  so  careful 
about  'phoning  to  his  house ;  she  had  always  felt 
the  risk  and  guarded  against  it.  But  she  was 
utterly  reckless  now.  Her  mind  held  no  thought 
but  the  feverish  consuming  desire  to  reach  him 
—  to  tell  him  he  must  come  to  her  —  that  he 
must  help  her! 

She  could  hear  a  buzzing  in  the  'phone  which 
she  knew  meant  the  ringing  of  his  number. 
There  was  a  long  throbbing  wait  —  and  then  — 

"  Hello ! "  It  was  a  woman's  voice !  Was  it 
hers?  "Hello."  The  voice  called  again  and 
still  again,  before  Margaret  could  force  the 
words : 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  Mr.  Whitman." 

There  was  no  answer,  only  a  sound  as  though 
the  receiver  had  been  dropped.  Another  throb- 
bing silence. 

"  Hello !  "     It  was  his  voice  now. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  incoherently.  "  You  should 
not  have  left  me  like  that.  I  must  see  you  again 


266         THE     WOMAN     ALONE 

—  now!    You  must  help  me  —  you  must  come 
to  me  —  if  only  for  a  moment !  " 

"  That  is  impossible !  "  There  was  a  strange 
muffled  note  in  his  voice. 

"You  must  —  you  must  —  I  can't  stand  it! 
I  must  see  you ! " 

"  I  tell  you  it's  impossible." 

"No  —  no  —  don't  say  that!    Graham,  listen 

—  you  must  come  —  you  .  .  ." 
A  faint  click  in  the  'phone. 

"  Hello !     Hello !  "  in  quivering  fear. 

But  there  was  only  an  abysmal  silence. 

He  had  hung  up  the  receiver  —  he  had  deliber- 
ately cut  her  off!  The  hot  blood  scorched  her 
face.  She  hurried  blindly  out  of  the  store,  away 
from  the  glaring  lights  and  inquisitive  eyes  of 
the  clerk. 

Central  might  have  cut  them  off !  She  caught 
at  the  thought  with  desperate  hope.  But  she 
must  be  certain.  If  he  had  done  it  pur- 
posely .  .  .  She  would  telephone  once  more,  re- 
gardless of  consequences.  She  must  know! 

There  was  a  drug  store  a  few  blocks  farther 
on  —  a  large  store  where  they  had  booths.  In 
her  feverish  haste  she  almost  ran.  She  reached 
the  place  only  to  be  told  the  booths  closed  at 


DESPERATION  267 

eight  o'clock,  but  there  was  a  telephone  on  the 
cashier's  desk.  A  number  of  people  were  in  the 
store.  No  —  no,  she  could  not  'phone  before  so 
many  —  she  must  go  somewhere  else. 

She  would  take  a  cab  to  some  large  hotel 
where  there  would  surely  be  booths.  But  no 
cab  was  in  sight.  She  rushed  on,  hardly  con- 
scious of  her  feeling  of  impotent,  helpless  rage 
at  conditions.  The  red-banded  window  of  a 
cigar  store  shone  from  the  next  corner.  With- 
out stopping  to  think  she  ran  in. 

"Have  you  a  telephone  booth?"  breathlessly. 

The  man  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  There 
must  have  been  something  in  her  evident  excite- 
ment and  distress  that  appealed  to  him,  for  he 
said  courteously, 

"  Yes,  we  have  one.  It  is  usually  closed  after 
eight,  but  you  can  use  it  if  you  wish." 

She  murmured  her  thanks  as  he  unlocked  the 
door  of  the  booth,  entered  and  closed  it  after 
her.  Her  hand  trembled  so  she  could  hardly 
take  down  the  receiver. 

"3240  River!" 

In  the  moment  that  followed  she  tried  fran- 
tically to  bring  some  order  out  of  the  chaos  of 
her  thoughts. 


268         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Hello !  There's  your  party,"  Central  called 
stridently. 

"Hello!"  His  voice,  but  with  the  same 
strange  note. 

"  Did  you  ring  off  purposely  a  few  moments 
ago?"  Margaret  caught  her  breath.  "Or  was 
it  a  mistake  —  was  it  Central?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  it  was  a  hoarse  muffled  under- 
tone. 

"You  don't  know?    What  do  you  mean?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  do  you  mean?" 
Her  voice  rose  in  quivering  excitement. 

"  I  mean  that  you're  precipitating  a  crisis." 

"A  crisis?  What  has  happened!  Don't  tor- 
ture me  like  this.  Tell  me ! " 

"  I  cannot." 

"Then  you  must  come  to  me  now!  I 
cannot  bear  it.  Graham !  Graham !  Think 
what  you're  doing!  I  never  asked  you  to  come 
to  me  before  —  surely  you  owe  me  that  much !  " 
The  words  ended  in  a  choking  sob. 

"  Mrs.  Whitman  is  here,  in  this  room."  He 
spoke  now  with  a  sort  of  terrible  distinctness. 
"  She  has  been  here  all  along.  She  has  heard 
everything  that  has  been  said  and  knows  who 


DESPERATION  269 

it  is  that  is  telephoning.  Now  do  you  want  to 
say  anything  more?" 

"Yes.  I  want  to  say  that  you  must  come 
to  me  now.  If  you  never  come  again  —  I  ask 
that  you  come  now ! " 

"  I  cannot."  Then  again  that  faint  click  in 
the  'phone.  This  time  there  was  no  doubt  —  he 
had  hung  up  the  receiver! 

There  was  a  red  blur  before  her  eyes  as  she 
once  more  called  Central. 

"That  number  — 3240  Eiver  — will  you  call 
that  again?" 

He  should  hear  her!  He  should  know  what 
she  was  going  to  do.  Nothing  he  could  say  now 
would  make  any  difference.  She  would  not  give 
him  time  to  say  anything.  She  would  hang  up 
the  receiver  this  time.  And  then  .  .  . 

"I'm  ringing  3240  River,"  shrilled  Central. 
"They  don't  answer." 

"  King  them  again  —  you  must  get  them !  " 

Another  beating  silence  that  seemed  to  para- 
lyse her  whole  trembling,  weakened  body  as  she 
leaned  against  the  side  of  the  booth  for  support. 

"3240  River  don't  answer,"  called  Central 
with  a  note  of  finality. 

He  knew  she  was  calling  —  and  he  was  refus- 


270         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

ing  to  answer  the  telephone.  It  had  come  to 
that! 

She  was  only  vaguely  conscious  of  leaving  the 
booth  and  paying  for  the  call.  Outside  the  long 
line  of  street  lamps  blurred  indistinctly  before 
her.  She  made  her  way  back  to  the  drug  store, 
swaying  a  little  as  she  walked.  But  when  she 
asked  the  clerk  for  four  ounces  of  laudanum,  her 
voice  was  firm  and  clear.  Laudanum  was  cer- 
tain and  merciful  —  it  brought  only  an  unending 
sleep. 

"Have  you  a  prescription?"  the  clerk  asked 
courteously. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  necessary  for  lauda- 
num." 

"  What  is  it  to  be  used  for?  " 

Why  had  she  not  anticipated  that  question? 
She  was  compelled  to  hesitate  as  she  tried  to 
force  from  her  mind  some  plausible  use.  The 
clerk  glanced  at  her  keenly. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  sell  it  to  you  without  a 
prescription." 

What  was  laudanum  used  for?  She  repeated 
it  over  and  over  as  she  dragged  herself  on  to  the 
next  drug  store.  A  mind's  picture  of  her 
mother's  medicine  chest  came  before  her.  There 


DESPERATION  271 

was  always  a  small  bottle  with  a  brown  stained 
label  marked  —  laudanum.  Even  the  odour  and 
bitter  taste  of  the  dark  liquid  came  back  to  her. 
As  a  child  —  what  had  it  been  given  her  for? 
And  then  the  picture  was  complete  —  her  mother 
had  the  bottle  in  one  hand  and  a  cotton-covered 
toothpick  in  the  other. 

She  met  the  clerk's  query  at  the  next  drug 
store  with  the  reply  that  it  was  for  an  ulcerated 
tooth.  He  gave  it  to  her,  but  made  her  sign  her 
name  and  address  in  a  register  of  poisons. 

And  now  as  she  turned  back  to  her  apartment 
she  was  filled  with  the  consciousness  that  it  was 
over  —  there  would  be  no  more  suffering,  no 
more  anxiety  and  suspense.  All  the  misery  and 
heartaches  of  the  last  few  months  would  be 
ended.  She  looked  down  at  the  neat  little 
package  in  her  hand.  Within  its  white  wrap- 
ping and  pink  string  lay  —  oblivion. 

In  the  many  times  she  had  thought  of  this 
lately,  there  had  always  been  the  dramatic  ele- 
ment in  it.  She  had  always  dwelt  with  a  cer- 
tain emotional  pleasure  on  how  he  would  throw 
himself  by  her  lifeless  body  in  his  anguished 
remorse  that  he  had  not  sacrificed  everything  to 
keep  her  with  him  before  it  was  too  late. 


272          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

But  now  she  did  not  think  of  that.  She 
thought  only  of  oblivion,  of  rest,  of  cessation  of 
thought.  She  would  not  even  take  the  trouble 
to  leave  a  note  or  arrange  things  in  any  way. 
As  soon  as  she  reached  her  rooms  she  would 
throw  off  her  wraps,  drink  the  laudanum,  and 
then  lie  down  —  for  an  unending  rest. 

She  held  the  bottle  closer ;  the  thought  that  she 
might  drop  it  or  spill  it  filled  her  with  terror. 
There  was  a  feeling  of  security,  of  certainty,  in 
the  four  ounces,  although  she  knew  it  would  be 
more  than  was  needed. 

The  events  of  the  last  hour  seemed  very  remote 
now.  The  hotel  loomed  before  her  in  the  next 
block  strangely  unfamiliar,  as  though  a  great 
length  of  time  had  elapsed  since  she  had  left. 

She  did  not  even  see  the  dark  figure  walking 
up  and  down  before  the  entrance.  She  was  on 
the  steps  when  she  started  back  with  a  muffled 
scream.  He  was  beside  her !  His  eyes  gleamed 
unnaturally  dark  from  the  pallor  of  his  face. 

Without  a  word  he  took  the  bottle  from  her 
clinging  grasp  and  tore  off  the  wrapper.  The 
light  from  the  doorway  fell  on  the  label.  Then 
she  heard  a  crash  far  out  in  the  street. 

Eoughly  he  caught  her  arm  and  led  her  up 


DESPERATION  273 

the  steps  and  into  the  elevator.  He  threw  open 
the  door  of  her  apartment ;  she  had  not  troubled 
to  lock  it  when  she  left.  She  sank  into  a  chair 
and  covered  her  face. 

"And  that  was  your  solution?  That  was 
your  conception  of  revenge?  You  thought  to 
put  an  everlasting  remorse  into  my  life.  But  it 
would  not  have  been  remorse!  It  would  have 
been  contempt  —  contempt  for  your  weakness !  " 

She  cowered  before  him,  shrinking  farther 
back  into  her  chair. 

"  You  told  me  if  things  ever  came  to  a  crisis 
that  you  would  help  me,  that  if  absolutely  neces- 
sary you  would  be  content  not  to  see  me  for 
days.  And  now  —  because  I  could  not  come  to 
you  to-night,  because  on  your  account  an  inno- 
cent woman  has  been  driven  to  desperation,  to  a 
condition  so  pitiful  that  mere  humanity  would 
force  me  to  stay  by  her  side  —  this  is  how  you 
would  have  helped  me ! " 

She  rose,  turned  blindly  toward  the  other  room 
as  though  to  flee  from  his  reproaches,  and  then 
from  very  weakness  sank  into  another  chair. 
After  a  long  silence,  he  said  less  harshly,  but 
with  an  inflexible  coldness  in  his  voice: 

"  This  morning  she  received  through  the  mail 


274          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

a  marked  magazine  containing  your  story  and 
an  anonymous  letter." 

Margaret  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  her 
face  toward  him. 

"An  anonymous  letter!" 

"  An  anonymous  letter,  implying  very  clearly 
what  that  story  was  based  on." 

"No  —  no!  No  one  could  have  done  that  — 
no  one  knew." 

He  laughed  harshly.  "  It  seems  that  some  one 
does  know  —  and  that  they  know  a  great  deal." 

She  caught  her  breath.  "And  you  thought 
only  of  shielding  her?  You  had  no  thought  of 
me  —  of  what  any  publicity  would  mean  to  me?  " 

"  It  will  not  be  a  matter  of  publicity.  If  it  is, 
you  probably  know  I'll  shield  you  at  any  cost. 
But  I  did  not  owe  it  to  you  to  leave  her  alone 
in  the  condition  she  is  now.  I  came  to-night 
only  because  of  the  fear  that  you  would  do  some 
reckless  thing.  She  knows  that  I'm  here." 

"She  knows  that  you're  here!" 

"  She  was  in  the  room  when  you  telephoned. 
For  some  reason  the  receiver  gave  out  the  sound 
—  your  voice  could  be  heard  all  over  the  room. 
I  tried  to  cut  off  —  and  you  rang  up  again.  I 
left  her  hysterical,  with  only  a  maid.  But  I 


DESPERATION  275 

promised  that  after  to-night  I  would  never  see  or 
communicate  with  you  again." 

"  Then  she  knows  .  .  .  You  admitted  .  .  ." 

"  I  admitted  nothing.  She  heard  what  you 
said  over  the  'phone." 

"And  you  mean  —  you  intend  to  keep  that 
promise?  "  she  whispered. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Graham ! "  Even  her  lips  were  white  now. 
"You  don't  mean  that?  You  can't  .  .  ." 

He  turned  on  her  fiercely.  "  Have  I  ever  kept 
it  before?  How  many  times  have  I  made  her 
that  promise?  And  have  I  ever  kept  it?  She 
says  this  is  final,  that  if  I  ever  see  you  .again 
she  will  leave  me  in  twenty -four  hours.  And  yet 
you  know  I'll  keep  on  taking  the  risk.  You 
know  I  haven't  the  strength  to  stay  away  from 
you  long." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  it  like  that  —  don't  make  me 
feel  .  .  .» 

"  How  do  you  expect  me  to  say  it?  What  have 
you  done  to-night  but  deliberately  try  to  wreck 
everything?  Even  after  I  told  you  she  was  there 
in  the  room,  you  rang  again  and  again.  She 
said  she  would  walk  out  of  the  house  then  —  if 
I  answered  that  telephone  again !  " 


276         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  Oh,  don't  —  don't  —  I  can't  bear  it !  "  She 
dropped  her  head  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

He  waited  until  the  paroxysm  of  sobs  had 
passed  and  then  said  coldly, 

"  It's  useless  to  cry.  I  can  feel  no  sympathy 
for  you  now.  I  owe  that  poor  woman  something. 
The  thought  of  how  you  have  deliberately  hurt 
and  humiliated  her  may  enable  me  to  stay  away 
from  you  for  a  while." 

"  I  told  you  how  I  wrote  that  story  and  how 
I  regretted  it.  Do  you  think  it  will  help  her  for 
you  to  taunt  me  with  it  now?  " 

"  No,  it  will  not  help  her,"  he  answered  dully. 

"  I  did  not  write  that  in  the  spirit  you  think 
—  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  her.  Won't  you  believe 
me  —  won't  you  believe  that  I  mean  that?  " 

"You  probably  mean  that  now." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  believe  me,"  she  moaned.  "  I 
know  you  don't  believe  me." 

"  Margaret,  it  isn't  a  question  of  my  belief  in 
your  motives,"  he  answered  wearily.  "  The  re- 
sults remain  the  same :  the  suffering  and  humil- 
iation that  story  has  caused  her  —  the  needless 
suffering.  What  we  have  done  in  the  past  I 
have  tried  to  justify  because  I  felt  that  we  could 
not  help  it  —  that  our  love  swept  everything  be- 


DESPERATION  277 

fore  it.  But  this  —  this  seems  so  deliberate,  so 
wantonly  cruel." 

"Oh,  don't  — don't  say  that!"  She  put  out 
her  hands. 

Only  the  flapping  of  a  window  shade  broke  the 
stillness  that  followed. 

"  Your  love  for  me  is  dead ! "  There  was  a 
note  of  finality  in  the  misery  of  her  voice. 

"  Love  does  not  die  so  quickly.  But  there  is 
nothing  I  can  say  now  that  will  help  either  of 
us.  You  had  better  let  me  go,  Margaret." 

She  was  watching  him  now  with  straining 
fearful  eyes.  "  You  mean  —  you  think  it  right 
to  leave  me  like  this  —  to  leave  me  indefinitely 
like  this?" 

"  I  haven't  thought  of  it  as  a  matter  of  right 
or  wrong;  that  phase  of  it  would  not  influence 
me  now.  It  is  simply  a  matter  of  humanity. 
You've  brought  upon  her  this  needless  suffering 
and  humiliation,  and  I  must  do  what  I  can  to 
make  it  less.  I  owe  her  that  much." 

"  And  you  owe  me  nothing?  " 

"  Margaret,  can't  you  see  the  uselessness,  the 
futility,  of  all  these  discussions?  " 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it !  "  She  groped  her  way 
to  him  through  blinding  tears.  "  You  must  not 


278          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

leave  me  like  this,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  cannot  bear 
it  —  I  cannot  bear  it ! " 

But  she  felt  that  his  arms  held  her  only  that  she 
might  not  fall ;  there  was  in  them  no  warmth 
or  love.  He  stood  quite  motionless,  cold,  un- 
yielding. She  felt  that  he  was  wondering  when 
she  would  let  him  go  —  when  her  torturing  im- 
portunities wrould  cease.  But  even  as  she  real- 
ised the  futility  of  her  efforts,  she  could  not  re- 
linquish them.  She  tried  to  draw  his  head  down 
to  hers,  to  press  her  tear-wet  face  against  his. 

At  length  he  said  in  a  voice  of  utter  weariness : 

"  If  you'll  only  let  me  go  quietly,  Margaret. 
I  tell  you  frankly  that  just  now  the  sight  of  emo- 
tion repels  me.  I've  been  through  too  much  of 
it  to-day.  I'm  sick  of  tears  and  agitations.  I 
feel  that  I  cannot  stand  any  more." 

With  a  muffled  cry  she  released  him  and  sank 
back  against  the  wall.  Without  a  word  he 
turned  to  the  door.  A  second  later  it  closed 
after  him. 


XIX 

THE  PRICE  INEVITABLE 

UNHEEDING  the  fine  mist  that  was  fall- 
ing when  he  reached  the  street,  he  hur- 
ried on  with  bent  head  and  tense  set  features. 
A  shrieking  fire  engine  swept  by  with  a  shower  of 
sparks,  but  he  did  not  look  up.  The  hose  and 
ladder  wagons  followed  with  thundering  hoofs. 
A  crowd  of  small  boys  came  rushing  after,  glee- 
ful in  their  shrill  excitement.  He  turned  down 
a  quiet  street. 

A  sound  of  a  stifled  sob  —  and  some  one 
grasped  his  arm.  He  turned.  Margaret's  white 
face  was  beside  him. 

"  Are  you  mad?  " 

She  stood  there  bare-headed,  the  mist  falling 
on  her  hair  and  thin  light  dress.  Both  hands 
were  clenched  tight  over  her  heart. 

"  You  must  come  back  with  me ! " 

He  did  not  speak. 

"  You  must  come  back  with  me ! " 

2T9 


280         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"  If  you  force  me  to  go  back  with  you  now," 
—  each  word  was  like  a  slow  lash, — "  it  will  ~be 
for  the  last  time" 

"  You  must  come  back  with  me ! " 

He  turned  and  walked  beside  her,  saying  no 
word  to  her. 

Another  engine  swept  by.  They  were  only  a 
block  from  the  hotel,  a  block  over  which  Mar- 
garet had  fled  in  a  breathless  moment.  But  now 
they  seemed  to  be  walking  on  and  on.  He  did 
not  take  her  arm;  he  made  no  effort  to  shield 
her  from  the  misting  rain. 

For  the  second  time  that  night  the  hotel 
loomed  before  her,  dark  and  menacing.  The 
steps  —  the  hall  —  the  elevator  —  her  rooms  at 
last. 

"  No  —  no,  you  must  not  look  at  me  like  that ! 
I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  had  to  go  after  you !  I 
couldn't  let  you  leave  me  like  that  —  I  couldn't 
bear  the  thought  of  to-night  and  to-morrow  and 
the  next  day  —  all  the  long  hours  living  it  over 
and  over ! " 

"  And  what  will  you  gain  by  this?  " 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  might  understand  —  that 
you  might  be  kinder  — ' 

"  That  I  might  be  affected  by  your  melodramat- 


THE     PRICE     INEVITABLE      281 

ics?    Don't  you  think  we've  had  enough  of  them 
to-night?    Will  you  let  me  go  now?" 

She  took  a  step  forward  —  her  face  whiter 
than  he  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  Graham,"  she  whispered,  "  don't  you  know 
why  —  why  I've  lost  my  self-control.  .  .  .  Why 
I  cling  to  you  so  desperately  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  before  him.  Then 
with  a  strangled  sob,  she  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  huskily. 

Her  only  answer  was  a  tightened  clenching 
of  her  hands  as  they  lay  out  upon  the  rug. 

From  the  street  came  the  sound  of  returning 
engines,  swelling  to  a  loud  rush  as  they  passed, 
and  growing  gradually  fainter  again  in  the  dis- 
tance. Then  she  felt  his  arms  around  her.  He 
laid  her  on  the  couch  and  knelt  beside  her.  At 
last  he  spoke. 

"  Margaret,  I'm  ready  to  do  whatever  you 
ask." 

She  lay  with  her  face  turned  from  him. 

"  I'll  come  in  the  morning.  You  can  tell  me 
then  what  you  wish  —  what  plans  you  think 
best," 

"  What  plans  I  wish?  "  she  whispered.  "  Have 
you  no  plans  —  no  wishes?" 


282          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

"We  are  under  too  much  strain  to  talk  or 
think  clearly  to-night.  If  you'll  wait  until  morn- 
ing —  I'll  try  not  to  fail  you  in  any  way  then." 

Her  face  was  still  turned  from  him.  For  a 
while  he  knelt  there  beside  her,  his  head  bowed 
on  his  hand.  At  length  he  rose.  He  stooped 
over  and  kissed  her  very  gently. 

"  I'll  come  in  the  morning.  Try  to  sleep  —  to 
forget  everything  until  then."  He  waited  a  mo- 
ment as  though  unwilling  to  leave  her  if  still 
she  needed  him.  But  she  made  no  motion.  Then 
the  door  closed  softly. 

The  street  noises  gradually  ceased  as  the  traffic 
lessened  into  the  night.  And  still  she  lay  as  he 
had  left  her,  her  burning  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall. 
The  room  was  tensely  still.  Only  now  and  then 
came  the  sound  of  some  prowling  cab.  And 
once  the  silence  was  sharply  broken  by  angry 
drunken  voices  —  some  late  rioters  straggling 
by.  Then  came  the  early  morning  sounds,  the 
rattling  milk  cart  and  noise  of  street  cleaners. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  he  came.  Two  large 
trunks  stood  packed  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  Margaret  in  a  travelling  suit  was  seated  at 
her  desk  clearing  out  its  contents. 


THE     PRICE     INEVITABLE      283 

She  rose  as  he  entered  and  stood  holding  to  the 
chair.  He  was  very  pale,  his  eyes  dark  with  a 
feverish  brilliancy.  He  crossed  the  room  and 
kissed  her  gently. 

She  smiled  faintly,  "  I'm  all  ready  to  go." 

"  To  go?  "  Then  he  noticed  the  trunks  and 
the  dismantled  room.  "  Margaret,  you're  not 
going  —  now?" 

"  That  was  what  you  wanted  yesterday  —  for 
me  to  go  away." 

"  But  I  don't  want  that  now  —  surely  you 
know  .  .  ." 

She  was  not  looking  at  him ;  her  head  was  bent 
over  some  papers  she  was  gathering  together  on 
the  desk. 

"  What  have  you  done?  "  Her  voice  was  low, 
and  curiously  without  expression,  but  her  hands 
trembled  among  the  papers. 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"  What  plans  have  you  made?  " 

"  I  have  come  prepared  to  meet  yours.  I  told 
you  that  last  night." 

"  And  if  —  I  have  no  plans?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"You've  thought  of  no  —  no  way?" 

"  I  know  of  but  one  way  —  to  tell  her  the 


284         THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

truth  —  all  of  it.     And  ask  for  my  freedom." 

"And  you  think  she  would  give  it  to  you? 
You  never  thought  so  before." 

"  It  is  different  now." 

"  Have  you  told  her  anything  yet?  " 

"  No." 

"When  will  you?" 

"  At  once  —  if  you  wish  it." 

"  If  I  wish  it  —  if  /  wish  it !  Oh,  Graham  — 
Graham,  does  it  mean  nothing  to  you  —  is  there 
nothing  voluntary  —  nothing  spontaneous  in 
your  attitude?  Have  you  no  thrilled  thought 
of  the  wonder  of  it  —  of  what  it  means?  Oh,  if 
there  was  only  a  single  note  of  what  I  so  long 
for  in  your  voice !  " 

"  Margaret,  I  shall  do  the  best  I  can  —  every- 
thing I  can.  Don't  make  it  harder  than  you  can 
help." 

"  Harder?  "  She  dropped  the  papers  now  and 
faced  him,  holding  tight  to  the  back  of  the  chair. 
"  No  —  I'm  going  to  make  it  easier  —  oh,  so  much 
easier!  You  needn't  tell  her  —  you  needn't 
leave  her!  It  is  not  true!  I  deceived  you!  It 
was  a  last  desperate  effort  to  hold  you  —  and  it 
failed.  What  you  offer  me  now  is  not  from  love. 
Even  your  voice  when  you  say:  'I  will  do 


THE     PRICE     INEVITABLE      285 

whatever  you  ask '  is  the  voice  of  one  who  takes 
up  a  burden  —  who  intends  to  pay  unflinchingly 
the  debt  he  owes ! 

"  I've  been  blind  not  to  see  that  for  weeks  only 
the  ghost  of  your  love  was  left  me.  I  don't  think 
you  knew  yourself  —  memories  and  ghosts  are 
very  strong,  and  it  was  those  that  still  held 
you.  And  yet  I  should  have  known!  There 
were  so  many  things  to  tell  me  —  your  long  ab- 
scences,  your  willingness  to  remain  away,  your 
reluctance  to  talk  of  the  future,  the  long  silences 
when  we  were  together  —  and  oh,  so  many  in- 
tangible things!  But  I  didn't  know  until  last 
night  —  until  you  thought  .  .  . 

"  No  —  don't  —  don't  speak !  I  know  all  you 
would  say  —  all  the  contempt  you  have  for  this 
deception.  Leave  me  —  now  —  without  putting 
it  into  words  —  that  is  all  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you ! 
Look  —  I'm  going  in  here  to  make  it  easier ! " 
She  turned  to  the  adjoining  room.  "  Now  leave 
—  quickly  —  while  I  have  the  strength  to  let  you 
go!" 

She  ran  into  the  room  and  tried  to  close  the 
door,  but  the  edge  of  a  rug  was  under  it  and  it 
would  not  quite  come  to.  With  her  hands 
clasped  against  her  throat,  she  stood  there  in 


286          THE      WOMAN     ALONE 

the  centre  of  the  room,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door. 

Somewhere  in  the  floors  above,  a  pianola  was 
playing  a  strident  air.  A  faint  hissing  of  steam 
came  from  the  radiator  in  the  corner.  But  there 
was  no  sound  from  the  next  room  —  he  was  still 
there  —  he  had  not  moved !  She  was  not  breath- 
ing ;  it  was  as  though  even  her  heart  had  stopped. 
What  did  it  mean?  Was  he  hesitating  —  was 
he  coming  to  her  —  could  it  be  ... 

Then  she  heard  his  step.  The  outer  door 
opened  and  closed.  And  she  knew  that  the  room 
was  empty. 

The  distant  pianola,  with  a  culminative  crash- 
ing of  chords,  stopped  abruptly.  The  radiator 
alternately  simmered  and  thumped.  From  the 
street  below  came  the  shrill  voice  of  a  child  at 
play. 

Margaret  had  not  moved;  she  was  still  stand- 
ing there  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  still  gazing 
at  the  edge  of  the  rug  that  had  caught  under 
the  door. 

"And  he  will  never  know"  the  whispered 
words  came  slowly.  "He  will  never  know  that 
it  is  true." 

THE   END 

VAIL-BALLOU   CO.,    BINGHAMTON   AND   NEW   YORK 


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